


Big God

by fabula_prima



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Cunnilingus, Explicit Language, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Fake Marriage, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, I mean it's Alfie Solomons so there's a lot of swearing, Kissing, Period-Typical Racism, Sex, Smut, Time Travel, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2019-12-30 04:15:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 36,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18308006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabula_prima/pseuds/fabula_prima
Summary: Tessa Telfair is half history scholar, half Southern Belle. She travels to London on a research fellowship and leases an apartment that seems frozen in time. But time is much less frozen there than anywhere else, and when she wakes up one morning in NOT 2019, her studies are suddenly the least of her concerns.The brute of a gangster that finds her is far more interesting.





	1. (Prologue)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is not Brit-picked, but I did go to some effort to avoid any huge gaffes. But I've lived my whole life in various parts of the Deep South and Appalachia, so Tessa's idioms and phrases are authentic.
> 
> *This was written between series/seasons 4 and 5, and while my HEART knew the truth of his fate, this story played otherwise.*

Stories of fantastic adventure often start with an average heroine who will come to do great things. By fate’s hand–or her own–she’ll rise from her mundane origins to find glory, love, and redemption. Perhaps she’s grown cynical to life. Maybe she feels trapped. Most commonly, she needs some excitement in her day-to-day routine. So adventure comes along and whisks her off to her destiny. **  
**

Tessa Telfair, born and raised in Savannah, adored her life. She’d spent years building an impressive resume, a creative circle of friends, and a beautiful home full of vibrant art and well-organized books. If there was anyone on Earth designed to live alone in absolute peace and contentment, it was Tessa.

The only loose end these days? Her studies. She was on track to finish in her allotted time as a research assistant, but she was eager to be done and get a job and _do_ something with her life that she loved so much. A fellowship to visit archives in London was just the ticket to expedite her plans.

So she leased a flat.

She boarded an airplane.

And she arrived in Camden Town on a Sunday, with what she assumed was excitement pounding hard against her ribs.

Later, _in 1925_ , she’d call it a premonition.

_**June 2, 2019** _

> _Well I’ve gone and done it. Ma’s had a conniption when I told her I won’t be visiting this summer, but she’ll have to deal. It’s high-time I finish this god forsaken degree and get the hell out of grad school._
> 
> _The lady I talked to on the phone seemed thrilled to have my company, though I still don’t understand exactly what the living arrangements will be. But it’s cheap! I like cheap. The fellowship only covers so much._
> 
> _I’ve spoken with the curator at the Franses, she’s gonna make a special call to see if we can get one of the Artemisia tapestries in. Pictures are great and all, but to see it in person?_
> 
> _Ma said to find me a man while I’m here, supposedly it’s the least I can do. I hate admitting she’s right, but a roll in the hay with a local might soothe the soul. Can’t be any worse than the old money asshats of Savannah._
> 
> _But more than likely, I’ll play it safe, avoid socializing, focus on my work. I may be approaching thirty, but damned if I’m not still the best behaved, goodest little girl you ever did see…_


	2. Chapter 2

“What brings you to London, dear?” Mrs. Chesterton’s face lit up with anticipation, and for a moment, Tessa thought she might actually be interested in her answer. She shifted the weight of her bag further behind her back as they climbed the few steps to the semi’s front door. **  
**

“Studies. There are some archives here that I need access to.”

The old woman thumbed through a ring of keys twice before she finally found the winner. “Oh that’s just lovely, dear. What is it you study?”

Tessa’s least favorite question. Which version would the landlady prefer? “16th century Italian history.”

“Italian?” she asked, high-pitched and nearly giggling. “Wouldn’t you be better off in Italy then?”

It was a fair point, so Tessa relinquished a quiet laugh. “There’s a tapestry archive here that houses a series I’m studying.”

The lock clanked open, much heavier than she would have expected. And when the landlady shouldered the door open, the hinges groaned. “Well then, I suppose you _are_ in the right place. St. James’ not a far ride from here, all things considered. And Camden Town’s been voted one of the best places in London to live, so I think you’re in for a treat.”

Tessa had already signed the paperwork leasing the place for the summer, she didn’t need further– “St. James, how did you know?” Perhaps the Franses archive was more popular than she realized.

“Oh I know all sorts, dear. Been around quite a long time. Now, you’ll have the whole place to yourself here.” She flicked a stubborn light switch and the dusty interior glowed a dull amber. “I’ll have someone by later this evening to get it tidied up a bit.”

The thought of a strange person cleaning around her all evening set Tessa on edge. “Please, don’t trouble yourself, I don’t mind cleaning. It’ll give me a chance to get to know the place.”

“Nonsense dear! What sort of host would I be if I left you in filth?”

“Really, it’s just fine. Point me in the direction of some cleaning supplies and I’ll be set.”

She made a good show of putting up a fuss, but ultimately, she retreated. “Very well. Two blocks down the street there’s a small market, should have everything you need. Now, I’ve hosted plenty of Americans in my day, so if you need anything, do be in touch. I mean that!”

Tessa was eager to get her bearings, so she thanked Mrs. Chesterton, waved goodbye from the threshold, and shut the door softly. She leaned back against its stained-glass center and took stock of her surroundings.

The home was more spacious than it appeared from the outside. Not a _flat_ , she had been corrected at some point by the travel advisor, but a _semi_. In the States, she’d have just called it a duplex, but in the end, it didn’t matter what she called it: above all else, the place was a time capsule. She assumed everything was up to code, but in reality, it looked like electricity had only just been installed. The floor was a gorgeous hardwood, covered in thick, slightly musty rugs. The furniture, all heavy and wooden, bore a thin layer of dust. And the kitchen’s appliances were charming mid-century modern darlings, so much more inviting than the cold stainless steel of most places she’d lived.

It would suit her just fine. Lots of things worried her about the trip: the distance from her ailing mother, her absolute need for sunshine and high humidity, and the prospect of being entirely alone. But she could find comfort in a place like this, and she complimented herself internally for taking the risk before she gathered her purse and headed down the street.

Her trip to the market was productive, despite being uneventful, and she’d even found a bus schedule in preparation for the next day. But when she arrived back at the house, a frail old man in a tweed ivy cap sat expectantly on the top step of the residence attached to hers. All knobby elbows and knees, he stood up to call her attention.

“You’re the new tenant?” Unlike his stature, his voice was robust, if a bit hoarse.

Arms laden with paper bags full of various scrubs and sponges, Tessa struggled to unlock the door. “Yessir, just for the summer.”

“Here, let me,” he murmured, closing the distance between them and relieving her of a bag. “You know, Mrs. Chesterton’s has had the awfulest time trying to keep anyone in there.”

Suddenly its quaint amenities sounded like future trouble. “Oh?”

He helped steadied a second bag that was nearly falling from her hold. “Are you superstitious at all?”

“No, ‘fraid not sir.” Once she got the door open, she ushered the neighbor in and directed him to the kitchen where she could stow the cleaning supplies.

He sat in one of the dusty chairs tucked up to the small dining table while Tessa unwrapped a package of steel wool and searched for a trash bin. “Well good, you won’t worry yourself over the silly stories.”

“Stories?” she asked, pausing in her task.

“Rumor has it this place is haunted. Nothing truly sinister, of course, just unsettling enough to keep soft suburban types away.”

She wasn’t a soft suburban type, and she had long known that the Deep South was filled with hauntings, but she was increasingly concerned that she ought to be _more_ concerned, at least for the old man’s sake. “You don’t mind living with ghosts?”

He chuckled then, and waved his hand to dismiss her worries. “My side’s just fine. Truth be told, I wouldn’t mind a bit of spookery now and then. But it’s just your side. A couple lived here for four or five years in the 50s, if memory serves. But that’s by far the longest stint since…”

She joined him at the table. “Since when?”

“Well, that’s the trouble.” His face took a serious expression, steely-eyed and full of warning. “It belonged to a rather notorious rum-runner just after the Great War. But he vanished in the 20s. One story says his love left him broken hearted and he killed himself. More likely, he was running from coppers.”

“Was he violent?”

“Oh, devil of a man, they say. But that’s the folklore ‘round every gangster, innit? Ahh, but I should be going. Some crazed old man I am, introducing myself with a ghost story.”

“No, I find it fascinating! I study history,” she explained, genuinely hoping to ease his conscience. “I like knowing what kinda past a place has.”

He grunted a bit as he stood up, both hands on his knees to help him gain momentum. “You ought to enjoy yourself here, then. Lots of history in these parts.”

As she helped him back to the door and said her goodbyes, Tessa realized she had changed her mind: she was comforted by his presence, not concerned. He was a bit odd, perhaps, but she somehow felt safer having him nearby. These thoughts flickered through her mind as she set herself the task of cleaning up. (In her opinion–which had been passed down from her mother–cleaning a place was the best way to get to know it.)

She found that the bathroom’s darling clawfoot tub was in fine working order as she scrubbed the mildew around its spigots. The bed’s linens looked and smelled new, but she considered taking some of the curtains to the laundromat down the street to freshen them up. She wanted to light the fireplace as soon as the sun set, but had no idea when the chimney had last been cleared and didn’t want to smoke herself out. So when her fingernails started cracking from all the cleaning supplies and she couldn’t stand the lemony scent of them anymore, she treated herself to a long, scalding bath. Tomorrow would start her research, and chances were, she’d become so single-minded that she’d forget to enjoy herself for most of the summer.

When the water turned tepid and her hair was starting to dry, she toweled off, found the most oversized, well-worn t-shirt in her suitcase, and donned it. In the quiet, lamplit bedroom, she got to wondering about its former occupant. _The supposed gangster_. The bed was too large for one man alone, perhaps he _had_ lost his lover. Or maybe he liked excess, and he sprawled out each night in his near king-sized bed, all by his lonesome. It was a lovely walnut four-poster, and when Tessa sat on its edge, she smirked at its decadence. Then her eyes landed upon a modest nightstand with a single drawer, whose key was still in place. Every hotel room she’d ever stayed in kept a Bible in such a drawer, but she figured that was just one of America’s unsettling quirks. Still, her curiosity was ravenous there in the night, in a strange city, sitting on a strange bed. She reached out and turned the key, then pulled the drawer open to find two items: a single earring and a black-and-white photograph, face down.

On the back of the photo was a name and a date scrawled in messy ink: _A. Solomons, June, 1925._ She ran her fingers over its yellowed edges before flipping it over to see a man in a dark wool coat, his wide-brimmed hat shading his eyes so that all she could see was a bushy beard. His right hand gripped a cane, and his left, decked in weighty rings, flipped the camera the bird.

She couldn’t suppress a snort of laughter. This man’s image represented what she loved most about studying history: learning that the people of the past had been as messy, foolish, and downright ornery as people were today. She tried to imagine the occasion for such a photograph, and who had stood behind the camera, but the thought pulled sadness up into her chest and she sat the photo back in the drawer, face down. Then her hand lighted upon the piece of stray jewelry, which she held up to her eyes for close inspection. But when she saw its fiery opal cluster inlaid in the gold lotus setting, her heart nearly stopped, and she dropped it to the floor. Both hands reached up to her ears in panic, but upon feeling both earrings in place, she breathed a sigh of relief. She picked the earring back up to study it once more and remained amazed, though less fearful. It was an exact match to those she wore daily. She had discovered _hers_ at a thrift store, so perhaps they were produced en masse at some point. But the odds of such a coincidence left her light-headed and anxious. She placed the earring back in the drawer with the photo, and crawled under the blankets. She fell asleep surprisingly quickly and dreamt of the man in the photo.

And in the dream, he was the reluctant focus of a silent film who gestured and smiled, but never lifted his chin high enough for her to see his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Song referenced is "Prisoner's Song" sung by Vernon Dalhart.

He wore an apron, and a pair of wire-framed spectacles tucked into his waistcoat, but still she couldn’t get a look at his eyes. The feather-fine scratches that littered the film cut across his figure, and their presence jolted dreaming Tessa into awareness: _it’s a movie, that’s right._

But just below the screen, where an orchestra should have been playing something somber to match his demeanor, a gramophone stood in isolation, scratching out a warbling ballad.

_Oh, I wish I had someone to love me_

As the music swelled, the man on screen stopped in his tracks, booted feet firm against monochrome cobblestones, and lifted his chin.

_Someone to call me their own_

It was like he could see her there in the theater, surrounded by empty red velvet seats. He stared right at her with a questioning expression, and she leaned forward tilting her head in reply. Given his posture and bushy beard, she expected his face to be harsh, even mean. But his eyes were sad, though bright, and his mouth looked soft.

_Oh, I wish I had someone to live with_

The film started to flicker and flash far too bright for her eyes. The discomfort made her overly aware of her body and she could suddenly feel her heart pounding unevenly and her jaw clenched tight enough crumble her teeth.

She woke with a harsh deep breath and clutched her stomach, worried she might get sick. The hazy smell of smoke alarmed her, but she assumed the old man next door was tending a fire. She scratched idly at the back of her neck to calm herself, and cringed to find her hair sweaty and matted to her head. It wasn’t the active sort of dream that usually had her in a cold sweat. All she did was stare at the strange man from the photo as he swaggered down a back alley. But it felt rather like she knew him, or that he knew her. And then she heard it, clear as day: the warbling song.

_‘Cause I’m tired of livin’ alone_

Her heart leapt into her throat when she saw a flickering glow of light beneath the bedroom door. “Alright, Tess, song’s just in your head from the dream. Time for big girl britches.” Whispering to herself seemed silly, but it broke the silence of her growing panic as she slipped out of bed to investigate. The old coot next door put in her mind the possibility of ghosts, and in the middle of the night, after a vaguely portentous dream, nothing seemed more likely. She was not of a mind to deal with such nonsense, but the more logical explanation–a legitimate fire in her house–would also absolutely demand her attention.

She padded softly to the door and the music got louder. Her veins ran icy and she considered turning back. If she could get to sleep and wake up in the morning with everything back to normal, she could pretend _all_ of it had been a dream. But she was already turning the handle, so she pushed the door open and kept her eyes on the floor.

The smooth hardwood glowed like tarnished bronze in the light of the fire. Woodsmoke mingled with tobacco in the air and the gramophone was almost deafening in its fuzzy, piercing quality. She heard what sounded like a crumpling paper bag and looked up. The man from the photo, from the movie, from the _dream_ , his profile lit up orange, squinting at her from over a newspaper.

“Who the fu–”

* * *

She came to at the insistence of her throbbing head. She was supine again, but no longer in the dark bedroom, and she was warm. She opened her eyes and saw the strange man staring at her, equal parts confusion and concern written across his face.

Her mouth was unimaginably dry, but she tried to speak all the same. “What happened?”

His eyebrows shot up toward his hairline, wrinkling his forehead. “You fucking passed out in my living room’s what happened.”

She rubbed at the left side of her head and tried to take stock of her surroundings. Had the landlady forgot to mention a roommate? “How did you get in here?”

He sat up straighter and crossed his arms, momentarily at a loss for a response. “How did—? How did _you_ get in here, it’s my fucking house.”

“Mrs. Chesterton is letting it to me for the summer.”

“See, that don’t make any sense, right, ‘cause first of all: it’s January. But more importantly, it’s my fucking house and I ain’t letting it to no one.” He leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees, and sharpened his stare. “How did you get in and who are you working for?”

His words were so measured, and his voice so calm that she couldn’t tell if the question was a threat. “Nobody. I mean, I told you, the landlady gave me a key and everything. I signed papers.”

He laced his fingers together. “What’s your name, love.”

 _Oh_. There it was. An endearing, soft sort of concern. She sat up slowly, hoping she’d feel less vulnerable if she could meet his eye level. “Tessa. Telfair, if a last name matters. Did I hit my head?”

“Ah yeah, pinged it on the door frame there, should make a lovely knot.”

Something about the shape of his mouth reminded her of an earlier realization. “Wait… _A. Solomons_ …are you _A. Solomons_?”

“Alfie,” he ventured with a curt nod. “You know my name?”

“There’s a picture of you in the bedside table, and it’s written on the back.”

“Doubt it, don’t keep anything in there.” His thumbs idly spun the heavy rings he wore and she remembered more.

“You’re the gangster! The one who—”

“I prefer business man.”

She nearly cut him off as her mind continued spinning. “But you’d have to be over a hundred years old.”

“Not quite.”

A terrible thought flitted through her mind, and she nearly stopped herself from following it. But the circumstances were just too bizarre. Gathering her composure and tucking her hair behind both ears, she looked him straight in the face. “What’s today’s date?”

“January 5th.” He checked the corner of his newspaper to be sure.

“What year?”

He gave her a funny look, as if he thought she might be joking. But he played along. “1925. Ah shit, c’mon, stay with—“

* * *

She awoke a third time with what felt like a brick in her stomach. This time, he was on the couch with her, at a respectable distance, watching her with wide eyes.

“You a fucking dope fiend?”

“Excuse me?”

“I dunno, you’ve passed out twice in twenty minutes, you got no idea what’s happening, sounds like you’re on an incredible trip, frankly.”

“Did you say 1925?”

“If I say yes, your eyes gonna roll back again?”

Rather than roll back, her eyes grew wide and she shook her head violently. “Nuh-no. No, that’s not. It’s 2019.”

“Twenty nineteen? As in two thousand and nineteen?”

She just knew that somehow, he’d traveled forward in time. By the power of her dream, or some other supernatural force, the man had traveled through time.

He was less convinced. “Hm.”

“Hm? I just told you it’s 2019 and you’re not freaked out?”

“No, ‘cause it’s not 2019. It’s 1925, and there are three possible explanations for why you’re disrupting my fucking sanctuary here. One: you’re lying and you work for the wops or the fucking Shelbys or fuck knows who. But you’re tremendously incompetent, so next option: you’re genuinely fucking insane, you’ve escaped from Bedlam, and you snuck in here somehow. Now, if that’s the case, can’t very well toss you out on the street, sick as you are. Third option: you’re telling the truth and I’m also telling the truth and you’ve…well, _you’ve_ gone back in time. Look around, love. You’re the oddity here.”

He was right. The way he dressed, the sound of the gramophone, the very presence of a newspaper: the 21st century was far away. A heavy silence fell between them until she stood up and started pacing, hands planted on her hips and began ranting. “Y’know, I never imagined a nervous breakdown would be so specific.”

“What’s that now?”

“You hear about nervous breakdowns, and it’s like people just kinda shut off, right? Lose touch with reality, like their mind got wiped clean or whatever. But this is way more specific than I’d’ve thought.”

His eyes rolled back and forth as he watched her pace from one side of the room to the other. “Bedlam was the right answer then?”

“Oh, no, I’ve never been institutionalized. Seen therapists and all that, but I mean, what millennial hasn’t? I never fully cracked, though. Well, not til now. And for some reason, my mind has decided it’s 1925 and I’m squatting in the house of a dangerously handsome bootlegger. Are y’all called bootleggers here in England?”

“Right, sit back down til the doc gets here.”

She did as he bid since she was starting to feel lightheaded again. “You called white coats on me? Well, _you_ didn’t do anything, this is all a figment of my imagination. Damn, I enforce authority even in my hallucinations.”

“You’re not hallucinating.”

Her laugh edged toward maniacal. “So I time-travelled? What, am I Jules goddamn Verne?”

He pulled a sort of frown and shook his head. “He never really wrote about time travel, you’re thinking of H.G. Wells.”

She looked very purposefully at him, his shirtsleeves rolled up unevenly, one eyebrow cocked in the simple satisfaction of correcting her. “ _Unbelievable_.”

A soft knock rapped at the door and Alfie stood to welcome a man who looked more like a rabbi to Tessa than a doctor.

“Is this the young woman?” She didn’t expect the thick Russian accent.

“Yeah doc, hit her head pretty hard, wanted to make sure she was alright.”

“Very well.” He hobbled toward the sofa and she sat up, trying to pull the hem of her sleep shirt down around her knees.

He held the sides of her head gently between his hands and tilted her chin upward, inspecting her eyes. “You know your name, dear?”

“Tessa Telfair.”

“Ooh, an American! And a Southerner by the sounds of it.”

“Savannah.”

“A lovely city. Now dear, tell me the date.”

She glanced over at Alfie whose jaw flinched. “January 5th, 1925.”

“Oh dear, I’m afraid you’re wrong.” Tessa met Alfie’s bewildered frown just before the doctor chuckled. “Just passed midnight, so it’s the sixth.” Tessa forced a laugh as all the air pressed from her lungs. “Well Mr. Solomons, she seems right as rain. Eyes are clear, pupils are responsive, memory’s in tact. I recommend an aspirin before sleeping to ease any headache, perhaps a finger of whisky if you like.”

Alfie walked him back to the door and Tessa watched him slip payment to the physician in the guise of a handshake. But their brief embrace suggested they were genuine friends. Alfie returned to the sitting area, and perched on the arm of the chair across from her.

“House calls and doctor-prescribed alcohol. It really is 1925.”

He rubbed at his beard and she realized, now that he was in full color, that it wasn’t nearly as dark as it initially seemed, and he wasn’t nearly as surly. “You didn’t tell him the 2019 business.”

“Yeah, well…” She pictured white padded walls and terrifying shock therapy. “I value my freedom.”

He nodded and cracked a smile. “Right then, something very odd has happened, and I have no real precedent.”

“Try being the one who traveled through time.” The thought still turned her stomach, and he sensed it.

“I assume you want to get back.”

“Well I can’t exactly function here. I have no job, no place, no contacts.”

“You have any clue how to get back?” He stood up and shuffled into the kitchen, only to return after a couple of clanks, with two glasses of whisky.

She accepted the less full of the two and sipped it with relief. “No, we haven’t figured out time travel yet, this is kind of a fluke.” The thinning line between absurdity and reality blurred her statements of fact into jokes.

“Right then. You’ll stay here til I find you a place.”

She glanced around in hopes of recognizing the home she’d spent her afternoon cleaning. But it was too dark in the corners and her headache was growing worse. “I guess I can’t really afford to decline.”

He huffed in agreement. “Nope. Now, time for you to get to bed.” He lifted his glass of whisky in the direction of the bedroom.

“Oh no, I can’t impose. I’ll take the couch.”

“No, you will not. You’ll take the bed. I leave early, try to sleep through it.”

She was too wound up to sleep, even if she _was_ exhausted. But she didn’t care for the idea of sitting by the fire, trying to avoid awkward eye contact with her involuntary host. So she stood and sat her emptied glass on the squat coffee table between them. “Thank you for the hospitality.”

He looked her up and down, making her uncomfortably aware that she didn’t have pants. But it was a concerned once-over, not a probing gaze, and she dismissed it when he grunted in disinterest. “Right. Don’t thank me yet, still lots of ways to fuck this up.”


	4. Chapter 4

Tessa woke up to harsh knocking, and she bolted out of bed without opening her eyes. If it were her own home, she could have made it to the front door without looking. But she was somewhere different, that’s all she could remember so fresh out of sleeping, so she stuck her arms out to help guide herself through the still unfamiliar house.

She forced a few fast blinks as she reached for the door handle. Swinging it open, she found a young boy, no older than ten or eleven, wearing old fashioned clothes. Were they called shorts yet? Trousers? He was all elbows and knees, crooked teeth, and grubby freckles, like most boys ought to be at his age, and that at least comforted her. He held out a flat box and stood with his mouth hanging open.

“Ain’t you got stockings, miss?”

She frowned her entire puffy face as she looked at her naked legs. Clearing her throat of the half-snores that still lodged there, she squinted at him. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

“Mr. Solomons said I was to drop this off to you and come straight back. Mr. Solomons does right by us, so I best be going.”

Before she could inquire further or even thank him, the boy was off, nearly tripping over himself as he ran. She shut the door softly, mysterious box in hand, and looked around the house in the light of day.

_Nineteen-fucking-twenty-five._

She was up shit creek. No job, no family or friends, no money, no clothes. She had the reasonably good fortune of a host that hadn’t turned her into the authorities for breaking and entering, which was its own small blessing. And he seemed practical about the whole ordeal, if not a little suspicious of her own sanity. But she was already wondering how long he’d tolerate her.

The fact of the matter was that she needed to find some temporary permanence–a silly contradiction that she was familiar with as a student. For the past ten years, she’d lived her life in six-month installments, which was fine by her. But usually she had a month or two to prepare for whatever the next chunk would demand. Never had to arrange things the morning of. Without a goddamn cell phone.

But she had a box, and that was something. The floor was chilly against her bare feet, so she headed for the sofa and tucked her legs beneath her, setting the box gently in front of her. It was inconspicuous, made of thick, cream-colored cardboard and tied shut with twine. She unknotted it gingerly and lifted the top to find neatly arranged lavender tissue paper and a large square card.

_“I guessed—A.S.”_

Curiosity overcame her suspicion and she unfolded the thin paper to reveal a modest neckline centered on a scarf that had been tied into a bow. The garment was pale green and soft to the touch when she lifted it, and its long, billowy sleeves ended with a tight cuff at the wrists.

It may as well have been a costume, so foreign in its feel and style, but she was endeared by it all the same. The last time she’d received clothes in a box like this, her mother had set her up with the son of one of her Daughters of the Confederacy friends. Never mind that Tessa loathed the very principal of the organization, this friend in particular was far wealthier than Tessa’s family and warranted a spectacle, in her mother’s opinion. So Tessa was subjected to taffeta and lace and ludicrous white wristlet gloves that arrived in a box far pinker than the one currently in her lap. The boy—Thurman Alexander Monroe, if you can believe such a name exists—was clueless, witless, useless at any sort of conversation. And after an excruciating dinner date in which he belittled the waitstaff, Tessa vowed that she’d never be set up romantically again.

The sight of the box stirred those lingering resentments, but this one’s contents were far more charming. Not something she would typically wear, mind you, but certainly tolerable. And it was a kind gesture from the strange man she called host. Clutching the dress and the box, she made a beeline to the bedside table and slung the drawer open in hopes of finding that picture.

But just as he had insisted the night before, it was empty. She sat on the edge of the bed and grieved the loss of that charming photo, wishing she had it in her hands to better study his face in shy solitude. She considered herself a formidable woman, but it was difficult to meet his face evenly. His eyes were sharp, his nose strong, and his mouth far too soft compared to the rest of him.

And then there was the dress. What did decorum have to say about that? Was it a gift? A practical necessity? A show of wealth? Perhaps he bought lots of women lots of dresses, he had a reputation after all. She recalled the card and a shiver ran down her spine. He had guessed her measurements, had spent enough time studying her figure that he felt comfortable estimating her clothing size. She glanced at the dress still tucked in the box and fingered the tissue paper aside. A dingy dressing mirror stood in the corner of the room and she approached it with the garment in hand, holding it up to her shoulders, trying to decide if it suited her. She turned side-face, one hand holding the top to her chest, the other smoothing its dropped waistline around her hips. Meeting her own eyes, she swallowed a gasp. Perhaps a sob? Did she still look like herself? She was a stranger in a strange land, all alone and entirely dependent on a notoriously dangerous man. And she was losing her sense of self. All she’d wanted out of the summer was a chance to study, but now she was faced with absolute impossibility. Perhaps some people would have revelled in such an adventure. Tessa just wanted to go home.

But she couldn’t find her way home in her pajamas. So she whisked her sleep-shirt overhead, tossed it a short distance to the bed, and slipped the new dress on. It fit comfortably, if not a bit loosely, but she supposed that was part of the fashion. Trying to reconcile her reflection with the Tessa she knew inside, she adjusted the neck-tie into a bow and twisted to check the back. When she was satisfied that she looked moderately presentable, her shoulders dropped with a heavy sigh.

A clock chimed quietly in another room, and she counted eleven strikes. What was she supposed to do with the rest of her day until her host’s return? And what sort of hours did a gangster keep, anyway? She could have done a bit of exploring around the neighborhood now that she had actual clothes, but it was the middle of winter, and she had neither a coat nor shoes.

Having no other ideas, she let her stomach guide her to the kitchen. She found a tin of stale ginger cookies, which she thought to improve by pairing them with whatever tea she could find. She hadn’t the foggiest notion how to prepare proper English tea, so she did her best and settled for ingesting a handful of stray leaves.

Halfway through her mug, the door squeaked open in a hurry and Alfie strode in, box in hand. His glance landed directly upon her, mid-sip, and he nodded. He removed his hat and overcoat and leaned his cane against the wall.

“Well then, did I guess alright?”

It took her a moment to realize that he was talking about the dress, but once she did, she sat her cup down and stood. “Not too shabby,” she answered, twisting as she admired the sway of the skirt. “I’m surprised you managed to find something so quickly.”

He rested his weight against the arm of the sofa, leaving half a room’s distance between them, and crossed his arms. “Right, well, I’ve a tailor on retainer.”

She couldn’t tell if it was a bit of bragging or just awkward filler conversation. “Thank you for it. I’m still just a mess about all this, but a little kindness certainly helps.”

He grunted softly, and crossed his arms more tightly, seemingly bothered by her reaction.

Damn moony-eyed girl, she’d read to much into it, assumed that he’d gone out of his way to do right by her. “Perhaps you didn’t mean it as a kindness.”

“Nah, it’s just not a trait I’m really known for, yeah? Maybe keep quiet about it.”

What did this man do for a living that kindness could kill his reputation? She looked down at her feet to hide that her eyes had gone wide as saucers just thinking about it. “Sure thing.”

“Got these for you too,” he said, handing over another mysterious box. “Fit’s a little harder to guess, but we’ll sort it out.”

She opened it to find a pair of taupe heels, short and rather plain. She looked all around for a size, but finding none, slipped the right shoe on to test. Her toes wiggled around in too much room. “A hair too big, but that’s an easy fix.”

He shook his head and held his hand out. “I’ll return ‘em.”

“Honestly, they’re just fine,” she assured, slipping the shoe off. “It won’t be any trouble.”

He stepped toward her, absentmindedly snapping his fingers to encourage her to hand the shoes over. “I’ll not have you walking about, blistering your feet and tripping or whatnot.”

She relinquished them with a glare of suspicion. “For someone not known for kindness, you’re awfully hellbent on being nice.”

“Mm.”

Resting her backside carefully on the edge of the table, she mimicked his previous pose and crossed her arms. “Why _are_ you so nice to me?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets, took a deep breath, and pursed his lips. When he spoke again, he did so softly, but firmly. “I could use your help.”

“My help?”

“You need some sort of identity, yeah?” He flourished one heavily-ringed hand vaguely, like a veteran magician. “I can arrange it.”

Tessa stuck her chin forward whenever she called bullshit, and now was no exception. “No offense, but I’m less concerned about identity and more concerned about a roof over my head.”

“My roof not to your liking?”

Something flashed in his eye then, mischief, maybe humor, and it caught her off guard. “I can’t put you out like that. I don’t even know you.”

He took a couple of steps forward, stopping half a foot away from her still bare feet, and chewed at the inside of his lip. “Look, pet, we’ll get you a place if you don’t like it here. I’ve got a job lined up for you, provided you can boss around some underlings and keep secrets.”

She wasn’t sure she wanted to know any of his secrets, and she certainly didn’t want to argue about him calling her ‘ _pet_ ,’ so she redirected. “You said you needed my help?”

“Said I could _use_ your help, if you’re offering. Would be awfully nice of you to offer, after all I’m doing for you.”

If nothing else, he was quick-witted enough to impress her. Gran would call him ‘real slick.’ Gran would _like_ him. “What would I be helping with?”

He went quiet then, scratched at his chin, and cleared his throat more forcefully than he really needed to. “Well, truth of the matter is, I need a wife.”

An uneasy laugh bubbled in her throat. “Can’t help you there, I don’t know anyone in these parts…times.”

“You deflecting, or you really that dense?”

The mad man was serious. “I’m not marrying you. I don’t know you!”

“I’m not asking you to marry me, I’m asking you to pretend to be my wife.”

“What, can’t you find a real one?”

“Don’t have the time.”

“Why do you need one?”

“Business reasons. Need to put some things in a name that’s not mine, easiest way to do that’s a wife.”

“Is that legal?”

“More legal if I’ve got a wife.”

“What do you _do_ for a living?”

It had been verbal sparring, hasty questions and short replies back and forth as he tried to explain himself. But here, he paused. “I…facilitate, mostly. Dabble in a variety of things.”

She wanted specifics, clarification. But her gut had other concerns. “Violent things?”

“Sometimes.” He _did_ have a fresh honesty about him.

“And if I agreed to all this, would I be in danger?”

“Less danger than if you said no.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Not at all. True, casual proximity to me can be dangerous. But wives are off limits.”

She _seriously_ doubted that. “Gangsters follow rules?”

“They follow ‘em outta fear of my wrath.”

His long, straight nose flared wide with that last word. And she understood, somewhere in the shiver that licked up her spin, exactly how that fear worked. She swallowed hard and met his eyeline. “I suppose I’d have to act the part?”

“Something like that.”

“Can I have a some time to think on it?”

He frowned, more in consideration than irritation, and reached for his previously discarded coat. “Yeah, alright, s’pose so. We’ll talk details and all when I get back this evening. Greta’ll be by shortly with groceries, don’t take her insults personally.”

He grabbed the crown of his hat with a wide palm, and pressed it low on his brow.

“Greta?”

“Housekeeper,” he answered, grabbing his cane. He was through the door and out of sight when she heard him mumble. “I’m not a fucking animal.”


	5. Chapter 5

Ollie had been under Solomon’s employ for five years, and if the man hadn’t killed him yet, it was unlikely he ever would. Having weighed this risk, he cleared his throat and knocked on Alfie’s already opened office door. “You’re stalling, boss.”

Alfie stared steadily at the paperwork before him, glasses perched on the tip of his nose. “And you’re a fucking cunt, mate, what of it?”

“Fine then, I’ll leave you to lock up.”

Closing shop was typically Ollie’s job. It was easy work, and could’ve been left to someone lower in the ranks of the bakery, but Alfie could count the number of people he truly trusted on one finger. Probably his middle finger. And that person was Ollie. To be clear, the lad pissed him off on a near daily basis. He wasn’t made of quite the same steel of those who had fought in the war–he spooked easily when tensions boiled over. But he always came back the next morning, and Alfie could respect that. He also kept his fucking mouth shut, and Alfie _required_ that.

So he decided to tell the lad about Tessa. Not the whole truth, of course, but enough to establish their story as public knowledge. She’d be seen around the bakery in due time, so they needed to get ahead of gossip. Ollie probably suspected that there were business motivations, but as long as the woman could keep to herself, no one need know about her bizarre origins.

And they _were_ bizarre. He’d stayed calm about the whole thing on her behalf. Something about her face told him that she needed a little pragmatism in light of the situation. Probably the terrified doe eyes, yeah? But after she’d gone to bed last night, and for the majority of his time in the office today, he’d focused all his spare attention on trying to sort out what the hell was happening in his house.

Now it was nearly 8pm and he still had no fucking clue. And that irked him. He liked having answers, liked having certainty whenever he could manage it. He liked knowing that he could rely on his intelligence as a constant in life, no matter what other variables fucked with him. But he had no explanation for his house guest. He’d have to face her inquiring stare with nothing but a shrug of his shoulders.

So he walked home slowly, even though it was frigid out and his knee ached, and he tried to anticipate whether she’d accept his arrangement and what sort of questions she’d no doubt throw at him. The idea of faking a marriage came to him abruptly, and he realized that it was a bit outlandish. But it served both of them well, and it was too interesting an experiment to pass up. She seemed like a respectable sort of woman; the sort that wouldn’t otherwise give him a second look, what with his way of life. To have her on his arm in London society? Well at the very least, it’d rile up the Shelby boys. He smirked at the thought as he turned the final corner onto his block. He spied his house and paused when he saw the front windows illuminated. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a house guest, let alone an already warmed home to walk into, and something stirred in him at the sight of it. Greta used to prepare dinner some nights when he first hired her, but he’d been spending so much time at the bakery that he gave her most days off.

Mid-thought, Tessa’s silhouette appeared in the frame of the window. She was at one of his bookshelves, he realized, running her fingers across the spines lined there. He watched her intently, his breath fogging in front of him in the light of a streetlamp overhead. He wondered which titles she was lingering on. Wondered how she’d spent her day. Wondered–with a lump in his throat that had no business being there–what her answer would be.

_Fuck it_. He took a deep breath and marched purposefully the rest of the way to his front door. It wasn’t like he was actually asking the woman to marry him, for fuck’s sake. It was a business arrangement, and it was in her best interest. And even if she said no, it’s not like it’d be a personal slight, just meant she was too soft for his way of life.

She startled a bit when he barreled through the door and it filled the room with an awkward tension, made more uncomfortable by the cold wind at his back and the fireplace heat in his face. He nodded at her and used the ritual of removing his hat and overcoat and jacket to delay eye contact.

She cleared her throat softly and took a step forward, hands clasped behind her back. “I made some supper a couple hours ago. If I knew you kept late hours, I’d’ve waited a bit.”

He perched his hat atop the coat-rack and hummed. “Don’t hear that often ‘round here.”

“What’s that?”

“Supper. Rustics use the word.”

“Awfully polite way of saying hillbilly.” Her soft laugh broke the tension and he took an easy breath. “I made dinner, then. But it’s probably gone cold.”

“No matter, not really hungry.” He saw her shoulders drop and winced at himself. He waited until she made eye contact with him to clarify. “I do appreciate the thought.”

She nodded and cleared her throat as she sat down at the table. “Least I can do for your hospitality. And to be honest? I was getting bored.”

“I suppose we’ll have to remedy that, then.” He didn’t mean it as suggestively as it sounded and he started to correct himself. But she seemed to not notice. “You thought about my offer at all?”

“I have.” He watched her fiddle with the cuffs of her pale green sleeves of her dress. He’d picked it out that very morning and he was pleased to see that it suited her. “And I’ve got a few questions.”

He gathered a decanter and a couple of tumblers and sat down across from her. Pouring each of them a nip of whisky, he crossed his fingers atop the table. “Proceed.”

She looked him stoically in the eyes, and though she looked soft now, he was able to see how she could be intimidating, if she needed to be. “What do you do for a living? For real, not some vague, clever answer that doesn’t tell me anything.”

_Might as well be upfront with her_. “Publicly? I run a bakery. But it’s a front for a distillery.”

When she pursed her lips together in consideration, he noticed the odd, puckering shape of her mouth. Did everyone in the future look so mischievous?  “I can live with that,” she said with a nod. “Next question: what would our story be? Surely you’ve got people, they’ll wonder where the hell I came from.”

Now this he’d prepared for. “An old wartime fling, I was thinking. Met you when I was stationed in Italy.”

“I’m not Italian.”

“No, but there were Red Cross girls there. One of ‘em sounded like you.”

This seemed to satisfy her, as she shifted in her seat and relaxed her posture. “Avery well. Now, what would playing pretend consist of?”

“You’ll come along to the few social obligations I can’t get out of, and you’ll lend your name to a couple of business ventures that Alfie Solomons can’t afford to take the risk on.”

“Right, well, since I don’t actually exist here, use my name however you like. I’m more concerned about how I should act.”

He took a sip and frowned at her over the rim of the glass. “Like me fucking wife.”

“Hold your hand? Call you pet names? Fawn over you? I need specifics, how would the wife of Alfie Solomons behave?”

None of the sounded quite right, but he didn’t have better suggestions. “Whatever draws the least amount of attention.”

“Alright then.” He thought he caught her rolling her eyes. “You said you had a job for me, tell me about it.”

“You’ll do it, then?”

She shrugged her shoulders and frowned. “Don’t have any better options, do I?”

He couldn’t do much more than nod. He knew that he’d help her out whenever he could, but all-in-all, she was fucked. He drained his glass and scratched at as his beard. “The job’s front house of the bakery. All legitimate business, keeping books and the like.”

“You trust me that much? Don’t you at least have some questions for me first?”

He didn’t really trust her–hadn’t known her long enough to determine that. But she seemed harmless and she was smart enough to know that he she couldn’t afford to fuck him over. Still, he was curious about her. “What do _you_ do for a living? Out there in the next millennium?

“I’m an historian.”

So she was _more_ than smart enough, then. “You sure you didn’t travel back in time on purpose?”

She laughed, well and truly laughed, and it warmed him deep in his belly. “Positive. Now’s not even my area of expertise, it’s about 400 years too late.”

“You come from money?”

Her laughter quieted, but her grin remained. “Hell no. My mama wishes. Her daddy cut her off when she got knocked up with me. She’s been broke ever since. And tryna marry me off to money, like it’ll bring glory back to the Telfair name.”

“Important family back in Savannah?” He gestured the decanter towards her empty glass and she reached it out for a refill.

“Oh yes. All the way back to ‘The War of Northern Aggression.’ But we’re just an offshoot bastard branch. Though I dare you to tell my mama that.”

“You don’t seem invested in it.”

“Nah. I’d rather make my own way. And all of Savannah’s old money bachelors are god awful anyhow.”

He wanted to keep asking questions. Wanted to know all about her–what she liked to do in her free time, what type of books she liked, what those old money bachelors did that disgusted her so fucking much. But the more she spoke, the more he liked her, and he didn’t care for that feeling at all. He didn’t have the time or energy to grow attached to anyone, least of all some time-hopping damsel in distress. And then he remembered the bit of the conversation he’d been dreading.

“Listen, I know I said before that we’d get you some other place to stay. But I think—“

Before he could finish his sentence she was waving her hand out and rushing to swallow a mouth full of whisky. “No, it’d look strange. Why would your wife live somewhere else?”

“Right.”

“Well I can ride the couch for the time being—“

“No, no, let’s not be ridiculous, you’ll be crooked as a fucking copper, sleeping on that. You keep to the bed, I’ve got a spot in me office.” She opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off before she could begin. “That’s the end of the conversation. No one’ll pay any mind, I spend most of my time there anyway.”

It took her a moment, but she finally nodded, so he did as well. They sat in silence for a moment, sipping at their whisky as the fire crackled in the background. With a swig left in his glass, he stood up, smoothed his hair back, and cleared his throat.

“Well then, if we’re to do this, ought to do it properly.”

She watched him with wide eyes as he disappeared into the bedroom. It took him a moment of rummaging through a dresser drawer before he found it: a small wooden box that he stowed away for stashing mementos. In the center of it glowed a smooth, golden band that his mother left him. He held it between rough fingertips, wondering what sort of sacrilege it was to fake a marriage. But he hoped his mother understood.

When he returned to the kitchen, Tessa was standing with her arms crossed over her chest, mouth puckered in that same strange manner as before. She had dimples, he realized, and he nearly forgot what he was going to say next.

“Gimme your hand, yeah? Left one.”

She untucked her arms, tentatively offered her smooth hand to him, and he held it lightly as he slipped the band onto her ring finger. It fit unsettlingly well, soft and glowing against her skin, and he only tore his gaze away when he heard her laugh. He looked up to see her smiling wide, cheeks rosy with alcohol or embarrassment, it was hard to tell.

“I’ll be damned,” she whispered, stifling more laughter. “We’re really gonna try to pull this off.”

* * *

She went to bed soon after their nightcap, but he was far too antsy to get to sleep. He sat on the couch for hours, trying to convince himself to bundle up and head back to the office for some real rest. But he worried about leaving her alone at night, helpless as she was. He dozed off sometimes between three and four in the morning, wondering what Savannah looked like. If it was as bright and sunny as he’d heard. If it was humid and heavy with the smell of flowering trees.


	6. Chapter 6

The first day at the bakery had, admittedly, not been Tessa’s finest showing. In her defense, she was the boss’s wife, and that immediately placed a target on her back. It seemed the bakery’s staff, steely-gazed and just as prone to grunting as her host, weren’t thrilled by the prospect of an outside hire.

“I can’t really blame them,” Tessa mumbled around a mouthful of stew at dinner that night. “I mean, half of them are older than me, and all of them know the job better.”

Alfie finished off what was left in his bowl and wiped his beard. “Want me to have a word with them?”

“No! Jesus, they’re already fit to be tied, I don’t need you stirring the pot.”

He stared at her, mouth pinched into a frown of confusion. “Think you could cut back on the colloquialisms, there, pet? Got no fucking idea what you’re on about.”

“ _Pissed_ , Alfie. They’re pissed because my status as your ‘wife’ got me a job that the lead baker is already suited to.” She lifted her spoon to take another bite, but paused with a glare. “And stop calling me pet.”

She thought he might argue, try to defend it as harmless, but all he did was snort. “Force of habit.”

“Anyway, I think it’s best I prove myself on my own terms.”

“They’re not gonna make it easy for you, little American goy you are.”

She shrugged, knowing he was right, and then the subtext presented itself. “Fucking Christ Alfie, did you send me into a Jewish bakery like some white savior?”

That got his attention, so much so that he leaned forward on his elbows, invading her space. “You got a problem with my people?”

There was madness in his eyes then, but it didn’t quite frighten her. “Of _course_ I don’t. It’s just…I don’t wanna march my lily white ass in there like I’m entitled to authority. Shit, Alfie, I don’t even know how to keep Kosher!”

He eased the tension in his posture and gestured for her to quiet down and calm herself, thick fingers surprisingly nimble in their language. “Look, love, you respect them, yeah?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then go about your business with that in mind. It’ll sort itself out. And if you need a bit of muscle, send for me.”

* * *

He was mostly right. As the days went on and she settled into the routine of the bakery, Tessa felt increasingly tolerated. Approaching welcomed, even. She got on best with a young woman named Mona—an Italian immigrant who felt a bit ostracized herself. Tessa had explained that marrying Alfie was a sudden decision and she had left home with very little. Mona was all too happy to help her shop and settle herself. Tessa knew that her kindness had started as pity, but it was nice to have a sort of ally against Esther and Margola: lead baker and lead baker’s closest friend. The two had more seniority together than the rest of the staff combined. And they remained icy toward Tessa even a month into the job.

But it was a quick month, truth be told. 1925 was a recent enough moment in history for her to assimilate without too much trouble, and at least she’d ended up somewhere that preferred English. But it smelled worse than she expected, like coal smoke and old piss. And silly as it sounded, she missed access to the Internet. The absence of information overload was nice in some respects, but it killed her to not be able to google at the drop of a hat. She kept a list in a small notebook of things she wanted to look up when she returned to the 21st century: the history of Camden, Jewish wedding customs, when, exactly, cosmetics stopped being filled with poison. In regards to researching, 1925 couldn’t compare. The clothes, however, were much nicer: thick fabrics, structure that made her feel like she was donning armor each morning. And they fit so well, after alterations, that she idly wished she could bring them back with her. Provided she _made_ it back.

And that thought occupied her mind more often than she cared to admit. She wanted to go back to the present…future. She missed the wonderful life she’d built for herself there. And she swore that once she settled in enough to feel comfortable, she’d start her research on time travel. But even that thought made her laugh. As if libraries in the 1920s were stocked with manuals on time travel. As if she had any idea how she’d ended up here in the first place. So whether she liked it or not, a lot of her energy went toward building her back-up life in Camden.

The most bewildering component of everything was her host. It took a week before she saw firsthand just how menacing he could be. It was her lunch break, and she had a question to ask him, so she decided to visit his office. But before she could approach the door, he was slamming it open, dragging a bloodied young man out of the room by his shirt collar, and screaming about the first rule. She was far enough away from him that he never noticed her, but she was close enough to see the spittle fly from his lips, the veins bulge in his neck. The display turned her stomach on impulse, but she didn’t feel morally righteous about it. He’d been upfront about his line of work, and she had expected to see the cause of his reputation eventually. All the same, she forgot her question that day and kept quiet back at the house that night.

But privately, when it was just the two of them, he was sweet–in a gruff, grumpy sort of way. She expected him to drink more than he did, but remembered that good sellers don’t often consume their merchandise. He took his tea with a surprising amount of sugar, and she told him he would’ve fit right in down South. Occasionally, he asked her questions about Savannah and about the future, and she gladly answered about the first, but kept quiet about the second. He still insisted on sleeping either in his office or on the couch, and while she appreciated his commitment to gentlemanly behavior, she felt guiltier and guiltier each time she saw him press a hand to his lower back and grimace. She had tried offering the bed, even offered to share it since it was unnecessarily large. But at that suggestion, he’d stared at her like she’d grown a second head, and told her to fuck off with such ridiculous ideas. As time progressed, it got harder to reconcile such foul language with the soft mouth it came out of—and that contradiction about summed him up.

And so a month into her arrival, a daily routine had formed. Up and into the bakery at 6am, just as it was starting to smell of fresh bread for the day. A break midday, typically spent at the nearby library, trying to scratch her inquisitive itch. Back to Alfie’s house by 4pm to attempt some sort of dinner, usually just for herself. A nightcap with her host, and a conversation made up of short sentences and grunts. Sometimes a late bath when she couldn’t sleep. And always, always a large empty bed, cold in the dead of winter, layered with as many blankets as she could find around the house.

Her closest friend was Alfie’s oversized bullmastiff, Cyril, who didn’t show himself until her third day in Camden when she woke up to find him sprawled on the foot of her bed. When she asked Alfie to explain the sudden appearance of a large dog, all he said was, “right, that’s Cyril, he’d sell you to satan for a belly rub.” It was true. The dog was all cuddles.

So if she could forget about the circumstances of her being where she was, things were alright. Besides, the existential panic and dread that accompanied time travel got exhausting after a while. Tessa let herself take an easy breath.

And then the Shelbys opened a joint in town and very suddenly, she had to make good on her part of the bargain.

“Should I be concerned that you pick out all my best dresses for me?” Tessa tucked her fingers beneath the lid of the sizable box Alfie had handed her after he told her their evening plans.

“While I’m sure you’re fashionable and all in the future, I figure I know style a bit better ‘round here.” Pinpointing his moods was an art that Tessa had yet to perfect, but there was something a bit lighter in his voice that night. Eagerness, perhaps. Contagious eagerness, she thought, as she ran her fingers over the front of the gown.

“My god, is there a bead left in all of London?” It was an art deco masterpiece: layers of sheer, royal blue material melting together into the very fabric of midnight. She held it up in the light of setting dusk–it was shorter than she’d expected, might rest an inch above her knees–and the hundreds of sequins and beads burned bronze in the twilight of the living room. “Are you sure this isn’t overkill for tonight? It’s just a bar opening.”

“Look, love, if I’m gonna have a wife, she ought to be the goddamn envy of every room she enters.”

“Isn’t that a little too conspicuous?”

“Nah, it’s expected of me.” There was something charming about his shit-eating grin. “Come on then, best be getting ready.” He disappeared into the bathroom, so Tessa took to the bedroom to get dressed.

In a moment of total abandonment, she decided to forego a bra so as not to ruin the neckline of the dress. It slipped on like a rain shower, soft and tinkling as it settled into place. Used to the hot Georgia sun, her skin had gone peaked in all of Camden’s wintry fog, but it suited the dark sleeveless garment. She tucked her frizzy blonde curls around themselves at the nape of her neck, momentarily irked that she didn’t have a truly fashionable bob to work with, and pinned them in place with a barette that Mona had gifted her. Alfie had bought her a pair wristlet gloves that were suited to daywear, but without proper evening gloves, she figured she’d pioneer a new bare-handed look. Finally, she slipped on the one fancy pair of shoes she had and applied a sharp red lipstick. If any part of her was suited to the aesthetics of the Roaring Twenties, it was her pronounced cupid’s bow–highlighted in rouge, amidst the deep blue of her dress, it almost made her look like she belonged.

She took a long look at herself in the mirror, and a deep breath. She cracked the knuckles of her middle and ring fingers one at a time–a nervous habit that kept her hands occupied. “Alright Tess, can’t be any worse than your debutante ball. You got your tits hanging free, you are a powerful, self-assured woman. And your fake husband puts the fear of God in everyone he meets.” She had been breathing too shallow, too fast as she hyped herself up and her head was spinning. “Need some fucking booze,” she whispered, clicking her heels hard as she headed back to the living room.

When she arrived, Alfie was already in the kitchen, pouring himself something or other. He turned when he heard her shoes and she could have _bathed_ in the look her gave her. It was momentary, imperceptible if she weren’t already hyper-aware of her senses: a flash of his teeth against his bottom lip, a dazed blink, a half-clenched fist. But not quite ready to confront what it meant, she let it go.

“Fuckin hell, no one’s gonna buy this.”

“Why?” She looked frantically down at herself, smoothing at the beads like it might make some difference. “Did I mess something up? I know my hair is–”

He drained his glass, refilled it, and handed it to her. “Your hair is fine, love.” He picked her coat up from the back of the chair and held it up for her to slip her arms in. “No one’s gonna buy that you’re with me, is what I mean.”

She exaggerated an eye roll over her shoulder. “Flatterer.”

“Just doing my husbandly duty.” When the coat was secure, he set his hands gently at her waist, little more than a reassuring graze. “Now then, let’s be off.” The wink he shot her as he stepped away to grab his own overcoat hit her harder than the double shot of whisky she’d thrown back.

* * *

 

[Tessa's dress](https://www.1stdibs.com/fashion/clothing/evening-dresses/1920s-french-royal-blue-beaded-silk-metallic-gold-lame-lace-flapper-dress/id-v_3985773/)

[Tessa's hair](https://www.defininglooks.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/05/easy-wedding-hairstyles-6-web-page-7.jpg)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the rating change. (No hanky-panky, but the mention of something related, so better safe than sorry.)

He was, without a doubt, in over his head. This was a practical necessity and an innocent experiment when he began, but now the woman sat in the passenger seat beside him, smelling all flowery, shimmering in the goddamn dress he’d bought her, and he was having to actively, purposefully not look at her lest he make a fool of himself.

“Tell me about these Shelbys. Are we friendly with ‘em?”

_Good, a distraction_. “Depends on the fucking day. Tommy runs things, he’s alright. Still a bit young and ambitious, but life’s hardening him up. Oldest brother’s Arthur, now there’s a loose canon. Got himself a pretty little wife what seems to have calmed him down some. Younger brother’s John, can’t keep his prick where it belongs. Trigger happy. They got a sister, too, off stateside I think. Then there’s the matriarch, Polly.”

“Thought you said Tommy ran things?”

“That’s right. But I’m betting not a trigger gets pulled without her two cents before or after. She’s got the most brains, and probably the biggest balls. But she lets her emotions get the best of her. Don’t know how he trusts her.”

“You seem to know an awful lot about them.”

“Intelligence is a very important thing.”

She went quiet for the next few minutes, leaving them in silence but for the gentle jostling sounds of his motorcar. He looked over and noticed her picking at her fingers in her lap. “You nervous?”

“No.” She wrinkled her nose and moved from picking at her fingers to picking at the beads of her dress. “Maybe. I feel like I’ve missed something.”

“How do you mean?”

“I’ve wracked my brain since I got here, trying to make sure I don’t accidentally say or do something that’ll give me away. But I’ve only had to interact with people in the bakery. I feel like these types might be a little more discerning.”

His hand twitched on the steering wheel as if it meant to pet her reassuringly. But he held fast and made a dismissive sound. “Nah, you’ll be just fine. If you have a gaffe, I’ll convince ‘em you’re some sort of eccentric.”

She smiled a bit at that and it breathed confidence into him. “They’d believe that?”

He pulled a pondering, mock frown and looked straight ahead. “I’m known to be a bit of an eccentric myself, I think it fits.”

After a beat, he heard her turn toward him, dress whispering against the fabric of her seat. “I must say, I am looking forward to seeing you in your element.”

“Y’know, a party isn’t exactly my element.”

“Maybe not, but you’ll be around your…associates.”

“Most of whom I’ve threatened to kill in recent memory.” He wondered for a moment if she’d forgotten what sort of business he was involved in.

Her eyebrows arched up near her hairline and he couldn’t tell if she was frightened or merely surprised by his candor. “All I’m saying is, we’re not best mates. There will be tension.”

“Well, that’s where a wife comes in handy. Supposedly we’re very skilled at navigating conversations away from delicate matters. Or so my mother would say.”

“We’ll see. I like a bit of tension. Keeps everyone on their best behavior.”

They arrived at their destination some thirty minutes after the festivities had begun. He put the motorcar in park, grabbed his cane, and climbed out of the vehicle. He didn’t like bringing it along to such social events, but he’d gone long enough without sleeping in a proper bed that his back was well and truly fucked. He worked his way around to the passenger door, swung it open, and held a hand out for his escort. She smiled politely, but he felt the anxiety buzzing around her. Part of him wanted to shake her a bit, tell her to buck the fuck up, but then she slid her hand into his and instead, he wanted to pull her close. Tuck her into the safety of his arms and ensure that she never had a reason to be uneasy.

“Alright there, big guy?”

She was out of the motorcar, steady on her feet, but he still held her hand. Probably tighter than was strictly necessary. He blinked back to reality. “Fucking peachy, love. You ready?”

The bar was nice enough. A little too bright for Alfie’s liking–bars ought to be seedy, and that called for more shadows. The decorations were fashionable, if not a little gaudy. But Alfie understood it as a show of wealth. The Shelbys wanted London knowing that they were here to stay, and that they’d be staying in style. It was a bit overstated, Alfie thought. All you really need to do was shoot the right people in the right places, and the whole fucking city would know you meant business. No need wasting money on a big party and overpriced furnishings.

But it was an opportunity to be seen with Tessa and give credence to their marriage. And fuck if she wasn’t a sunbeam amidst all of London’s gloom. He had no good reason to feel any sense of pride–she’d popped up in his home at random, by some wild stroke of luck. He’d done nothing to earn it or win her over. And not in a million years could he have successfully courted the likes of Tessa. Had his pick of most women in town, what with his position and money, but not anyone as bright and lively as her. All the same, he reveled in the envious, gaping looks of people as they walked through the bar. It was crowded already, only half an hour into festivities, so they had to walk rather close together. He guided her with a hand on her lower back, guarding and a bit possessive, and dangerously warm. Eventually, he spied a pair of Shelbys sat at the bar, surveying their proverbial kingdom. He leaned forward to make sure Tessa heard him over the surrounding din. “Tommy and Polly ahead at the bar. Let me lead.”

They both sat cooly, modest drink in each of their hands, as Alfie approached. “Tommy.”

“Alfie.”

“Polly.”

“Alfie.”

“Right, well, eloquent lot we are. Lemme introduce you to my wife, yeah. Here we’ve got Tommy Shelby and his aunt, Polly.” Tessa nodded politely to the both of them. “Which means this,” he paused, trying to look admiringly at her, “is my wife, Tessa.” _It wasn’t difficult to admire_.

Polly placed her hand affectionately on the other woman’s arm and feigned a convincingly bright smile. “A pleasure.”

Tommy’s smile wasn’t nearly as bright, and so seemed more sincere. “Didn’t know you had a wife.”

“A recent development.”

Tessa looked up at him with what he could only call doting eyes. She was a very good little actress. He nearly believed the emotion there, and _he_ knew it to be a lie. She’d have no trouble convincing the rest.

Polly’s gaze flicked between the both of them–she’d be the most skeptical, no doubt. But in a very pleasant tone, she turned to Tessa. “Have a chat with me, dear. Let the boys talk business.”

She smiled sweetly at the matriarch and turned back to Alfie. And then the last thing he’d prepared for happened in an shocking instant. The temptress balanced up onto her toes and placed a chaste kiss to his stunned lips. The fuck was she thinking? The fuck was he supposed to do? It was a moot question, because his hand had already lowered to her bum, covered in delicate beads, and he pressed gently into it. That startled her back a bit and he turned to step away with Tommy before the two of them could be caught staring confusedly at one another.

* * *

 

“When did the two of you marry?”

Polly scared the shit out of Tessa. She put on the trappings of civility and kindness, but Tessa could see that Polly had dealt with enough nonsense to not really care what others thought of her. She had command, authority, and an intimidating grace about her. None of it given, all of it earned.

“I guess it’s been about a month, now?”

“You’re American.” It wasn’t a question.

“Yes ma’am. From Savannah, Georgia.”

“How did you meet our Mr. Solomons?”

_This_ she’d rehearsed. “During the War. I was part of the Red Cross, stationed in Italy. Played nursemaid to him and some of the other boys in his regiment.”

“But you only just married?”

“Our group was reassigned while he was still recovering and we lost touch. My family traveled here for the holidays recently and I’d remembered him talking about Camden, so I looked him up.”

“How romantic.”

It was a challenge. Alfie wasn’t a romantic and Polly knew that. “Perhaps on my end of things. Alfie’s a bit more of a realist. I told him it was fate. He called it coincidence.”

“Tell me, how do you put up with that man?”

Anger flared low in her belly. She had to remind herself that other people had very good reason to dislike Alfie. But it didn’t change the fact that he’d only ever been kind to her. She tempered herself with a forced laugh. “Fortunately for him, I happen to like grumpy old men.”

“Yes, well, perhaps it’s none of my business. But you seem like a sweet girl. Be wary of these men. You wouldn’t be the first casualty of their schemes.”

That sounded an awful lot like a threat, so Tessa decided change her strategy. “Ma’am, I know very well what my husband does for a living. He tried to warn me away from him, away from the danger he is to me. But I’m not swayed from a purpose once I’ve set myself to it.”

Reading Polly’s expression was nigh impossible. But her tone gentled. “Good. This life requires that sort of spirit.”

It wasn’t a blessing, per se. And Tessa didn’t much care for her blessing, so much as she hoped it meant she bought the marriage. But she sensed that she was closer than she’d likely ever be to having equal weight in a conversation with the woman. She took a chance. “Alfie has great respect for you.”

“Would he want you telling me that?”

Another challenge. “I don’t think he would’ve married me if he didn’t like me being so stubbornly of my own mind.”

“Then you’re luckier than most.”

* * *

 

They’d both kept quiet on the ride home. He wasn’t sure what kept her so silent, but on his end, he wanted to wait until they were home to ask her what exactly she’d meant by kissing him. At home, he could study her face better when she answered.

She made for the kitchen as soon as they walked into the townhouse, and started fiddling with making tea. He didn’t want tea, and he could tell that she was just trying to keep herself busy.

“Business with Tommy alright?”

It was the last thing on his mind. “Yeah, fine I s’pose. Fine as it can be.”

“That’s good. No death threats?”

“Not tonight.” He tried rehearsing a way to ask the question. “Right–

“About–”

Perhaps they’d spent too much time in one another’s company, thinking the same thing at the same time like that. He decided to be the braver of them.

“Right, what the fuck was that kiss about, then?” He knew he was pawing at the back of his neck like a nervous schoolboy, but he couldn’t help it.

She winced rather dramatically. “I was laying it on too thick, wasn’t I?”

Well then, at least she was self-aware. “I mean, I don’t mind a kiss, love, but I wasn’t exactly expecting it. It’s not me you’ve gotta convince, you could’ve let me in on it.”

She groaned, dropped her weight heavily on the couch, and buried her face against one of the cushions. “Polly seemed suspicious. I was afraid she’d think I was an escort faking it or something. I figured a kiss would be outside an escort’s boundaries, y’know, like in _Pretty Woman_ , so she’d be convinced.” Most of what she’d said was muffled and only barely comprehensible. Then she turned her head and her cheek pressed hard against the seat, squishing her lips out like some comical doll. It was absurd and endearing. “What am I saying? Course you don’t know _Pretty Woman_.”

“I’ve got no idea what that means.” He sat in the chair across from her, head lowered so he could see at least part of her face. “Look, don’t get all worked up over it, had to happen eventually. But I nearly dropped me fucking poker face for a minute.”

She turned a bit more, now reclined flat on her back, and lifted her chin at him. He could make out the shape of her like that, laid out right in his eyeline. She wasn’t the fashionable waif of so many these days, and apparently he liked that. “I recall you recovered just fine.”

Heat crept up his chest toward his neck, but he dismissed it. “Not sure I follow.”

Her peal of laughter startled him. He didn’t like feeling so out of sorts in his own home. “Please, _dear husband_ ,” she drawled, the moniker a taunt. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you squeeze my ass.” He opened his mouth to argue, but she kept on. “I mean, fair’s fair, I started it. Just didn’t _feel_ like you were all that shocked.”

She held his gaze with command. He liked that about her. Always up to the challenge. “Decided in the moment that grabbing his wife’s ass is a thing husband-Alfie does.”

He thought he saw her flinch, then. A twitch of her mouth or maybe shifting her shoulders. He didn’t want to scandalize her. Or maybe he did, just a little. But before he could say anything else, she gathered herself up, prim and proper, and returned her attentions to the tea in the kitchen. “Well then, now we’re both better prepared for next time.”

A conundrum. The woman was an absolute conundrum. In his defense, he had no idea how women could acceptably behave in the future. Perhaps they could be both forward and demure all at once and not confuse the fucking hell out of everyone around them. But as it stood, his control over the situation felt like it was slipping. He groaned as he stood from the chair, thinking perhaps tea would help in some way after all.

“‘Alfie, please.” Low like that, her voice was a salve. “Will you please just share the goddamn bed?”

“I’ve told you–”

“Stop being so fucking honorable. If it’s my virtue you’re worried about, you really ought’nt, that ship’s long sailed.”

He was glad to have a thick beard to cover the flush he felt swallowing his face.

“We’re friends, aren’t we? I mean, I know it’s only been a little while, but I think of you as a friend now. I trust you. It’s just a bed, you need a proper night’s sleep.”

Were they friends yet? Did he want to be her friend? Did he want to be something else? He didn’t have friends, not really. Certainly didn’t have anything else. But it was getting harder to argue with her. His back was wrecked and the only reason he had for not accepting her offer–besides his own impressive stubbornness–wasn’t exactly something he could admit. Couldn’t tell her no, he wouldn’t share a bed with her, for fear she’d wake to his hard-on pressed against her.

He ought to do the sensible thing. Rent her a room elsewhere, tell any gossiping hags that it was newlywed strife, continue on with the charade otherwise but not have to see her all bright and shining all the fucking time.

He was a very sensible man, no matter his reputation for madness.

And that’s what he repeated to himself in silence that night as he slipped under the covers of his bed for the first time in over a month.


	8. Chapter 8

Of all the misfortunes surrounding her current predicament, nothing killed Tessa’s spirits more thoroughly than the bone-chilling cold at night. There were colder places in the world, no doubt. But she was from the sticky heat of the low-country swamps, used to hot air as thick as shower steam and sunlight that warmed every nook and cranny til you were near melted. She used to wallow happily in it like a cat caught in a sunbeam. Camden, in winter, froze her very bones.

So when she woke one morning to a relaxing warmth, she thought perhaps she’d made it back to 2019. Just as easily as she’d arrived in the past, maybe she’d returned home to the future. But then she smelled a soft sort of musk and realized that the dull, droning noise was coming from a large, snoring beast at her side. Not Cyril, this time, but Alfie, sunk like a stone into the pillows. He was altogether less intimidating like this, without his wide-brimmed hat and his layers of clothes. But he was more real to her, chest rising and falling as he fought to suck in deep breaths. And that was an unsettling idea. He wore an awful lot of jewelry for a man, but it suited him. All the rings drew attention to his hands, and she had to stop herself from reaching out to touch them. Would they be soft and warm? Or calloused and cold? She knew she’d felt them before, whether in handshake or in passing, but she couldn’t, for the life of her, recall how they felt.

There was only just enough light streaming in to see the outline of his face, but still, her breath caught. _Ridiculous_. He wasn’t _that_ good looking. He was quick witted, which made him seem more attractive, but otherwise he was average. Perfectly plain eyes, closed like this. What matter if they were some nameless, ethereal color when he opened them. He ought to have brown eyes, the rest of his coloring suggested brown eyes, but no: sometimes they were steely blue and sometimes they looked like moss. _The nerve_. His nose was plain too, not terribly full of character, even if it was strong and straight. She hadn’t noticed until now that the skin around his hairline was red and seemed to flake. Maybe it came and went, sensitive to weather and stress. Perhaps it ought to have repulsed her, but instead she made a mental note to check about skin conditions next time she was in the library.

And then there was that gash of a scar through his otherwise thick beard which surely marred the whole landscape. Did he get it when he served in the War? Maybe it was a token from a business rival. But it was long and garish and not the least bit dashing. So who cared about his mouth? Certainly not Tessa. Tessa paid no mind at all to the fullness of his lips, firm and soft at the same time in a way that seemed too good to be true. If she _did_ care, if she put her mind to it, she could describe his mouth the same way the Devil himself would’ve described the apple to Adam and Eve. Just as forbidden, just as sweet, but far more bewitching. Thankfully, she _didn’t_ care.

It was her day off, and she meant to spend it at the library reading up on the Red Cross. If she was to spend more time around the Shelbys, she needed an airtight story. And while being an historian meant she knew enough about Italy to make do, her field of interest wasn’t exactly modern.

And so she found herself at a large table in a quiet corner of the library, reading about British forces stationed in Italy. It was comforting to once again be hidden behind a massive stack of history books. Or rather, just books. New books, really, the War wasn’t far enough away to be history yet. Her heart squeezed hard at the thought. The Lost Generation. The next war to come. _The Holocaust._

At the mere echo of the word in her mind, she had to clutch her stomach for fear of being sick. How had she not considered it before? She found herself in the midst of a Jewish community on the historical eve of their people’s genocide. Granted, they were safer than their brothers and sisters on the Continent, but they would feel the repercussions. Their own would join the battle. And she was very likely the only person in the world that knew what would happen.

She slammed the book shut and considered her options. She should tell Alfie. He had influence, maybe if he knew in advance, he could spread word and help get people out of danger. But would he take her seriously? Perhaps she should keep her mouth shut about the future. Blabbing about things to come sounded like a good way to change the whole outcome of things, possibly in a detrimental way. But possibly in a much _better_ way. Lives saved were undoubtedly better than lives lost. And the state of 2019 wasn’t exactly utopic. But what if it affected the people she loved? What if she changed things in such a way that people she knew would have never existed in the first place. Her best friend’s great-grandparents met in France during WWII. Christ Almighty, without that war, she’d have never been born.

Panic rose hot and acidic in her throat, it was just too much. She was getting ahead of herself. As much as she’d like to personally strangle each member of the Third Reich, how would she ever be in the position to do so? She was a visitor here, nothing more. She would make it back to the twenty-first century before another war even started.

And then something deep inside laughed at her. Pessimism in her gut, she figured, but maybe realism. The truth was, she may never make it back. She had no idea what brought her here in the first place. There was no DeLorean, no shimmering portal, no stones at Craigh na Dun. Nowhere to even begin. No matter how good a distraction the bakery and Alfie had been, she was stranded. Not since her first night in 1925 had she felt so isolated.

She felt tears well in the corners of her eyes. She never asked for this, dammit, she liked her life! Anyone looking would have seen a verifiable ugly cry: silent, but red-faced and pained. She drew a deep, snotty breath through her nose and couldn’t hold back a stuffy laugh. _Life made no promises to abide by your wishes, Tessa_. But what to do now?

With a nod to herself, it was decided. Alfie would be in his office at the bakery, of course. Not a weekend or holy day went by without at least an hour or two spent in his office. She was only ever let in on bakery business, but she knew he ran a bookmaking racket, and she felt certain there were other things as well. And with his need to know every scrap of information, she was sure he didn’t delegate oversight to anyone at all. He kept an eye on every cog. It was a wonder he didn’t spend more time in the office, really.

So she decided to visit him. The things she needed to get off her chest couldn’t wait until later in the day. He needed to understand the gravity of what she knew. She needed to give her presence in the past a purpose. It would be up to him to act, but he deserved to know. She repeated it like a mantra as she nearly jogged to his office. _He deserves to know._

When she arrived, his door was closed, but there was no one nearby on watch, so she traipsed right in. “Alfie! Alfie, we need to talk.”

“ _Chi è la buchiach_?”

Tessa turned from Alfie’s startled expression to the source of the insult. A man stood near the door, toothpick bobbing up and down in his mouth as he tongued it in consideration. He looked every inch the Italian mobster in an overstated suit, with over-greased hair. She took a deep breath and turned to him with a glare. “ _Scusami? Chi cazzo sei?_ ”

Before the stranger could answer, Alfie was standing to diffuse the situation. “Retract the claws there, kitten.”

“This _stronzo_ calls your wife a cunt, and you expect her to keep quiet?”

His eyes went wide, wild even as he turned to the man, and Tessa felt validated. “You call her a cunt, mate?”

The man laughed low and slimy in his throat and she got a better look at his sad eyes. “Seems your _mantenuta’s_ Italian is better than yours, _compagno_.”

“I’m his wife, not his mistress, you asshat.” By now Alfie had gripped her shoulder tightly and was guiding her out of the room.

“Right, well, before you two start to brawl…” Once she was through the door, he gave her a wink. “I’m done after this meeting. Wait here if you like, we can walk home and talk about whatever had you barging in like a fucking madwoman.”

She wanted him to tell the Italian man to fuck off and get out of his sight. She wanted to see him angry and protective on her behalf. She wanted it so badly she felt an ache in her belly at the sight of his grinning mouth. But that was just misplaced lust talking. While he was clearly pleased to see a rise out of her, Alfie obviously had business with the man and she wouldn’t stand in the way of that. Still, his expression didn’t fit.

“Are you laughing at me?”

“Course not.”

“Then why are you smiling like that.”

He paused and smiled wider, almost sincerely if she ventured to read it. “I think I like learning things about you.”

“Like?”

“Like you speak Italian. And you’re not afraid to put a man in his place.”

Before she could respond, he was back in his office with the door shut, ready to continue with his meeting. What would he say to the man? Would he apologize for his meddlesome wife? Would they make some joke about her being just as fiery in bed? That last one pissed her off and she had to shake her whole body clear of such bizarre thoughts. It was just her state of mind, making her think these things, turning her into a spitfire. The realization in the library had filled her with too much: too much panic, too much adrenaline, to much righteous energy. She hoped Alfie’s meeting didn’t take long, she needed to walk it all off.

* * *

Changretta would not, for the love of God, stop fucking talking. Most of the real negotiating had already been handled by the time Tessa interrupted, so the prick was just performing at this point. What was it about American gangsters that made them so fucking theatrical? Alfie didn’t normally tolerate such an ego, nor was he keen on helping him preserve it, but the man’s rambling gave him time to think about his fake wife and the scene she’d just pulled.

Frankly, he got a bit stiff just recalling it. He knew she had a sharp tongue, but he’d never seen the vitriol unleashed. Something was weighing on her, he could see it in her eyes when she’d swung the door open. Whatever it was had her on edge. So when Changretta opened his greasy mouth, she lit up like a stick of dynamite. Her color raised, her eyes glowed, every visible bit of her tensed with fury. She spat Italian like sweet venom and it did something to him. He wasn’t an expert on accents by any means, but her English, being from the American South, was slow and cloying, clung to his brain like honey. Hearing her differently, even for just a moment, made him miss it. _Whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean._

Finally, Changretta stopped talking and held his hand out to confirm their negotiations. Alfie would side with the Italians in their vendetta in exchange for exclusive exporting rights to his holdings across the pond. If so much as a finger of rum was poured anywhere in New York City, it’d be from one of his bottles.

“I’m gonna be honest here, mate, haven’t heard a word you said. Deal stands as it was before the interruption.” It wasn’t a question, it was the truth of the matter, so he went ahead and shook his hand before the wop could argue differently. He escorted him out the door of his office, mumbling something of a farewell, but all of his actual attention was tied to his pretend wife, propped in the corner waiting for him. _Fucking hell, she’d waited for him_. Changretta tipped his hat and strolled out of the building–the goddamn Sicilian mafia–but he couldn’t care less. Tessa burned like a beacon there in her green coat and red lipstick, and if he had less sense about him, he might have scooped her up in his arms and kissed the air out of her lungs.

But he didn’t. He looked at her, probably with a maddened expression, and cleared his throat. “Right, lemme get my coat, and we’ll be off.”

He expected her to be talkative on the walk home, given her insistence when he was in the office, but for most of the journey, she huffed and mumbled to herself.

Eventually, it got irritating. “You gonna tell me what the fuck’s got you all–” he gestured vaguely at her, pretending like the very sight of her didn’t drive him a bit mad himself.

She took his arm then, huffed once more, and shook her head. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to say it. If I even should say it.”

“You should fucking say it, love, you’re a wreck.”

She lifted her eyes to meet his and there was soft appreciation in them. A kind of comfortable smile collecting at the corners. All the better if she thought his main motivation was her wellbeing. In truth, that was only part of it. Mostly, it was the suspense.

She pursed her lips, clearly trying to choose her words carefully, and squeezed his arm. “Alfie, we need to talk about the future.”

_Ay, the future_. He lifted his free hand to scratch at a sideburn and his gut curdled. _What fucking future?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> “Chi è la buchiach?” // “Who’s the cunt?”  
> “Scusami? Chi cazzo sei?” // “Excuse me? Who the fuck are you?”  
> stronzo // asshole  
> mantenuta // mistress  
> compagno // mate, friend, etc.
> 
> Author’s note: not Jewish, and not looking to try to represent Alfie’s Jewish experience because, well, that’s not my place and I’m not equipped. In that regard, I’ll be sticking to Tessa’s experience as someone who’s naturally motivated to right injustices and is now having to navigate what that means and what her place is.
> 
> Also, Alfie’s Italian is just as good as Tessa’s, if not better, but buchiach is more of an Italian-American thing, so I wager Alfie’s not as familiar with it.


	9. Chapter 9

When they finally arrived home, Alfie gestured for Tessa to sit, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop moving. Like the night of her arrival, she paced. “Christ, I don’t know if I can do it.”

Her nerves didn’t stop him from sitting, it seemed. He rubbed idly at his knees. “The fuck’s wrong, did something happen?”

She had tried making a mental outline of how to explain everything, how to frame the whole mess, but she was still at a loss. “Every so often, you ask me about my time, yeah?”

He nodded.

“And I deflect. You’re a smart man, surely you’ve noticed by now that I don’t really give specifics about the future.”

He rubbed at his beard and nodded again. “Might be dangerous.”

“Exactly!” He wasn’t a confused child, she could trust him to follow her. “You know what I’m getting at, then! So you’ve heard of chaos theory and the butterfly effect and all that?”

“No, no fucking clue.”

She paced and paced and dug through her mental files for dates and timelines of theories and terms appearing, but it was too distracting and it didn’t matter. “The flapping of a butterfly’s wings could cause a hurricane halfway across the world.”

His hand had moved up to the bridge of his nose now, which he pinched hard. “Look, it was all exciting when you got fired up at Changretta, but whatever this is–”

“You never know what small thing might end up changing the course of the future. If I tell you about the future, you might do something to change it. And I have no idea what that change might look like.”

“Right, this all makes sense enough, I figured that’s why you were keeping a tight lip.”

“It was! But _now_ …I remembered something. And I think it’s something you have a right to know.” She paused, trying to delay what she had to say. “But it’s bad, Alfie. God, I can’t think of anything worse.”

“You’ve got my attention.”

“If I tell you, if you decide to do something about it–you could change everything. I might vanish, I have no idea. But you deserve to know.”

“I understand the goddamn consequences, just tell me.” She could see his patience was wearing thin, but the words themselves felt like bile rising in her throat and she couldn’t get past it.

“You fought in World War _I_.” She waited to see if he’d respond, but all he did was frown. “Right now, it’s the Great War, but history remembers it as World War I because there was a second one. 1939 to 1945.”

His expression softened and he shook his head. “That’s still what, fourteen years away?”

Why wasn’t he at least perturbed by the mention of another war? Did he think himself invincible after his own military experiences? She’d have to ask him later, but it would have to wait. “The war’s bad,” she shook her head dismissively, “but it’s not what would concern you most.”

It took her twenty solid minutes to recount everything she could remember from her undergraduate course on the Holocaust. It seemed like such a small amount of time, too little time, to tell the awful story. But with an audience of one, who could only absorb the information with a scowl, there wasn’t any interruption. Twenty minutes was all it took. And then an eternity of silence as he breathed heavily.

She ventured the first word. “I had to tell you.”

His eyes snapped up to hers and his expression, if she had to name it, was one of rage. “Did you? Did you really have to?”

His tone frightened her a bit, so she spoke softly. “Did–of course I did.”

“And what the fuck am I supposed to do about it, yeah?” _There_. The raging Alfie of repute. “You saddle me with this fucking…fucking outrage like I can do anything about it.”

She didn’t like being on the defensive, but there was something wild in his eyes. “I didn’t say you had to stop it or, or do _anything_ , I just–”

“Right, I sit back, do nothing, yeah? You wanted it off your chest so bad, I’m sure you feel better. Now how am I supposed to live with this? You tell me some German cunt’s gonna call for the eradication of all my people. And he’s gonna fucking get away with it! For a long fucking time, no one’s gonna lift a goddamn finger.”

That particular bit of anger was more than justified. But she had to know how much of it was directed at her.

“It’s horrific, more than horrific. But what if I hadn’t told you, huh? Fifteen years from now, it’s happening. Hopefully I’ll be long gone, but what if I’m not. Would you have any respect for me? Or my memory? If you realized I knew this was gonna happen and I didn’t tell you?”

He shook his head, his back towards her, but then something snapped and he took two heavy, massive strides to her. “You waltz into my goddamn life and act like I asked for it. This isn’t about how you’re _fucking_ remembered.” He was in her face now, sharp and trembling. And he was right. He stared at her, his beautiful eyes so wild and furious, that she started losing breaths, thought she might start crying. They really were beautiful, in a terrible way like this, and it was becoming too much. But then she recognized it for what it for the challenge it was. Could she meet his righteous anger and still lift her chin?

Calmly, so quietly that it could have been a whisper, she spoke to him. “You save one person from it, you’ve done something. Knowledge is power, Alfie. You could warn people.” She set her jaw and took a deep breath at what she considered next. “You could go kill him right now. I’ll go with you. It won’t solve everything, but it’ll make a difference. And it’ll feel good.” She didn’t mean to say that last bit, even if it were true, and she wondered at the way his eyelids drooped just a bit when she said it. Perhaps there was something that drew her to the danger of Alfie after all. But it wasn’t just his influence on her. You could only learn so much history before you started wanting to change it. To enact your own justice and retribution against the terrible men who were remembered for evil deeds.

“Forget what I said about the dangers of changing the past. You _can_ do something. And I’ll support you in it.” She pictured the two of them, arm-in-arm on some superheroic mission and it was _ridiculous_ , but tempting.

All the fire left his eyes then, replaced by an awful sadness.

“I’m dying, Tess.”

That couldn’t be right, she must have misunderstood. “What do you–what do you mean you’re dying?”

He scrunched his face up as he walked away from her to do a bit of his own pacing. “I mean I’m dying. Got cancer.”

Blood rushed to her ears and she didn’t know what she ought to think of first. His suffering. How far along cancer treatment could possibly be. What on earth she’d do without her only ally here. That she hadn’t even properly kissed him yet.

But practicality won out. “How far along is it?”

He gestured his arms out wide. “Does it really matter?”

“It does to me.” _But why did it matter so much?_

He considered his answer for a while, and she wondered if even he knew how bad it was. He settled on a frustratingly vague answer. “I’ve got some time left. But not fifteen years.”

Her stomach felt like it was tossing around inside of her and her head spun, trying to recalibrate after all of the information that had just spilled out between them. Heavy, horrible information, that called for pondering and grieving and perhaps planning. But she couldn’t do any more of it that evening. If one more heavy thought passed through her mind, it would pull her to her knees.

“You could’ve told me earlier.” She wasn’t mad that he kept it from her. She just hated to think that he was dealing with anything so awful on his own. Even if he was a self-reliant brute.

“I’ve not told anyone.”

That warmed her tremendously, even though her heart still felt heavy and bruised. She looked at him, trying not to let any pity slip across her face. She didn’t want to give him a reason to regret telling her.

But the staring caught his attention all the same and he glared at her. “What?”

“What?”

“You got a funny look on your face.”

She never was much good at mastering her expressions. “I was just thinking that my usual reaction to all of this would probably be frowned upon.”

“How so?”

“Well, if I were back home and somebody told me they were dying, first thing I’d do is hug their neck.”

He sneered. “Why?”

She didn’t rightly know. It wasn’t like it fixed anything, or like hugging was anything special, reserved for bad news. “Just to feel like you can hold ‘em close a minute longer, I guess.”

It was impossible to tell if he thought that was a good enough reason, but then he shook his head. “It’s not like I’m fucking dying tomorrow.”

Putting it in those terms, even to deny it, felt like a punch to the gut. The last one she could handle on her own two legs. Against her better judgment, she strode over and flung her arms around his neck. If she had hesitated for even a moment, she would’ve stopped and patted him on the arm or something equally awkward, but she was glad to have gone through with it. It was reassuring to feel him, solid and not dead, even if perhaps he _was_ dying. She idly wondered if his confession was the only reason she felt so sentimental about him now. But she knew that was a lie. Like she had lied to herself earlier that morning when she watched him sleep.

Even though she squeezed him tight, his arms remained loose at his sides, as if he’d never even seen a hug performed. When he spoke, meticulous and slow, the words reverberated through her. “I did not tell you this so you could pity me.”

She nodded. “‘Course not. This is a hug because I–because it’s good to hug people.”

Slowly, and with a resigned huff, he wrapped his arms around her back and patted lightly. “Yeah, alright, I get it.” Paired with his words, he was reciprocating the embrace to bring it to an end. But while she eased her grip, he tightened his. She felt him take a deep breath and… _was he sniffing her hair_? She pulled her face away from his shoulder so that he couldn’t feel her smile at his momentary vulnerability. But her own vulnerability didn’t escape her fretting mind—there was a very real possibility that she was falling in love with a dying man. A dying man, born in the 19th century, who happened to be a successful criminal, and her fake husband. It would be best to stop all of that. Carry on with the charade with as little physical contact as possible. Shut the very idea of affection right out of the realm of possibility.

But _Christ Almighty_ , he was nice to hug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I've ever disliked writing a chapter of anything more than this chapter. Without so many of you having encouraged me thus far, this is about the point that I would've just stopped attending to the story.
> 
> I think of fanfic as a wonderful, sometimes collaborative experiment. And this chapter could be a totally failed experiment. The tone felt off, the pacing felt off, and it very much felt like I lost track of where I was going with things. But it's clear and out of the way now, and I'm hoping to be happier with the ensuing chapters.


	10. Chapter 10

They sat on a bench between two monstrous oak trees, hung heavy with tufts of something soft and grey. The sandy ground below them glowed with dappled golden sunlight. Her hand rested on his thigh, thumb drawing small circles, and her head leaned gently against his shoulder. He closed his eyes as she kissed him, slow and sweet, like it really meant something to her. And when he opened them, he was back in Italy, strapped to a medical bed, and she stood over him with blood smeared across her nurse’s apron and across her cheek.

Why was she crying? He needed to touch her, damn it, needed to hold her hand, but his arms were belted to his side. Panic rose in his chest, and pain to accompany it, but nothing was worse than that face, normally full of sunlight, weeping and bloodied. She stroked the hair from his sweating forehead and he saw her chin tremble.

He bolted up in bed with the sheets wrapped tight and tangled around his arms. He didn’t dream often, let alone have nightmares, and he didn’t care for the way it had his heart racing like he was about to be sick. But then he looked over and saw her still mostly asleep, frown twitching on her face at the disturbance he caused. He held perfectly still. Part of him wished that she’d wake up and comfort him just so he could feel her close. But a larger part wanted her to stay sleeping so he wouldn’t have to address the fact that he was dreaming about her.

He tried to focus on the first bit of it, tried to remember where they’d been and what she smelled like when she kissed him.

Fuck, he’d not kissed anyone in a long time—and the fleeting, fake one she snuck for appearances at the Shelby bar didn’t count. No, he hadn’t kissed anyone in _ages_. He’d fucked a handful of women occasionally in the past few years, just to scratch the itch, but it didn’t involve kissing. It was just something nice and warm for an hour or so amidst the stress that was his life. He liked his life just fine, of course. Made more out of it than he’d expected. Made _far_ more out of than his mother had expected. And sure, there were things he’d not got around to, but it wasn’t anything to worry over. It could be tended to later.

He’d not seen the cancer coming, though. And his outlook on it changed nearly every fucking day. Sometimes nihilism, sometimes pragmatism. Sometimes he’d look at Cyril and be glad he didn’t have a family, ‘cause if thinking about leaving his dog hurt him that much, thinking of leaving kids or a wife would have turned him into a right miserable cunt.

Most days he carried on as normal, just with a ticking clock in mind. He wanted the bakery—both the legitimate and illegitimate parts of it—to continue on after him, as best it could. He liked the idea that it meant jobs and money for his community. He liked taking all the risk himself and letting others benefit. It worked well for him in the War. He could make himself the target, take all the heat, so everyone else could get somewhere better or safer. Criminal enterprise wasn’t all that different. If the guns were pointed at him, they weren’t pointed at his people trying to make something of their lives.

But those same guns were precisely why he’d not formed any real attachments to anyone. Least of all a woman. He knew how it turned out, and Grace Shelby was proof of that. Then the fucking boy, too. Tommy Shelby could be smart when he tried, but sometimes he let greed get to him. Wanting a wife and kids was just a different sort of greed.

So what the fuck was he thinking, letting Tessa into his life? Sure, he told himself he was doing her a favor. And he really did intend to keep her as safe as he could manage. But he also thought she’d be gone by now. A strange, fever dream of a divertment, an interesting story to look back on. Besides, he was on his way out soon, he might as well have a bit of fun looking after a damsel in distress.

But now he was getting greedy. He was watching her sleep, staring at her eyelashes fanned across her cheek, letting his heart warm, as if this was all something suited to him. He could feel in the hug she gave him last night that he was going to break her heart. She didn’t really love him, he wasn’t that delusional, but she cared in a way. And if he couldn’t figure out how to get her back to her time before his own time was up, she was going to end up hurt. He could not abide that.

He thought about all of this as he stared at the ceiling, trying to clear himself out of his nightmare. He looked over at her again, moonlight cold and clear across her face and the curve of her nearly exposed shoulder, and his fucking heart leapt into his throat. He’d known from the start that she was an attractive woman, unparalleled when she was made up and whatnot, but fuck if she wasn’t the most beautiful thing he’d seen. Right there, sleeping on his pillow, wearing one of his retired undershirts like she fucking owned his whole life. Surely he was smarter than this. Surely she was just a pretty thing to look at, yeah?

Ah fuck, but that was a lie. There was something else there. Maybe it was some kind of modern sensibility she had, yeah? Maybe it was because she was so fucking personable. Most likely, it was just happenstance, her being in the right place at the right time when a fucking death sentence had his mind in all sorts of irritatingly vulnerable places. Didn’t make her any less remarkable, though, did it?

He turned fully on his side to look at her properly, lifting the blanket up and out of the way of his twisting so as not to disturb her. What the fuck was he going to do with her? She could take care of herself, he felt sure of that. But he felt responsible, too. He needed to get her back to her time, but he had no idea how. And until he figured it out, he needed to keep her the fuck away from the Shelbys and the Italians, that was just decent sense. Things were alright now, but the minute Shelby found out about his deal with Changretta, he’d kill him. Or at least try to kill him. He didn’t mind so much, the idea of that. Going out at the hands of a respected rival instead of wasting away. But now he knew what it felt like to hold Tessa close, have her hold him back, and that…well, he couldn’t have that if he were dead.

Ah, the hug. If he was this riled up over a hug, he really was fucked. She was just so goddamn soothing, wasn’t she? It weren’t a delicate, polite little hug. It was a fierce embrace, like maybe she could hold all his pieces together. And she hummed too. Fuck, that about did him in. Soft and low little hum of approval, trying to assure him.

It was hard to let go of that, and of the flowery way her hair smelled. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost smell it now, tossed haphazardly on the pillow and in her face. He reached up with light fingers and smoothed it away from her brow. But then she leaned into his touch and it felt like he’d done something wrong, something he shouldn’t be allowed to do. She stirred a bit more, stretching under the covers, and a moan of contentment slipped from her. God save him, he was only a fucking man, and his prick had very little concern for his conscious reservations.

“Still dark,” she mumbled, eyes barely open.

He turned very purposefully away from her and adjusted his pillow. “Mhmm, go back to sleep.”

After a moment of quiet breaths between them, she whispered again. “You okay?”

“M’fine.” He tried his damnedest to sound sleepy too, but he was very much awake. He knew sharing the bed would be a fucking disaster.

But her breathing slowed, and then steadied, and it seemed his grumble had been a good enough answer. Then he felt her turn, felt the mattress dip toward him a bit, and caught the warm rustle of her breath against his back. That little comfort put him right to sleep. Her forehead pressed between his shoulder blades.

* * *

Tessa was never much good at shifting gears. That Sunday had been a nightmare, full of things she didn’t want to consider. When she woke up the next morning without Alfie beside her, she panicked. Something was wrong, she needed to see him and make sure he was alright.

And then she woke the rest of the way and remembered precisely why his absence had scared her.

“Like he said, _not dying tomorrow_ ,” she whispered to herself. She was being ridiculous. But she was also relieved that he wasn’t there, for two reasons. First of all, she didn’t know what the day-after-illness-confession protocol looked like. She knew he wouldn’t want her to act different around him, but she also knew that she _felt_ different. And there was the second reason: she wanted to jump his bones.

What was it about a rough, roguish man showing vulnerability that drove her absolutely wild? She had tried talking herself out of it last night, before he’d actually come to bed. It was just hormones. Or timing! Yes, it was timing. Usually, she paid little mind to men that might be so-called suitors because she was busy building her life. School, work, research, and hobbies left little time or patience for men. Or women, for that matter. But now that she was ripped out of all that, a desire for intimacy was allowed to bubble up. Alfie just happened to be there. Right place, right time. And it certainly didn’t hurt that he was already her “husband.” All of that was conspiring to make her think she was falling in love.

But just as she was thinking that, he’d shuffled into the room and whispered her name. Like a coward, she’d pretended to be asleep. And he took such care to not wake her as he slipped into bed, moving slowly and settling in as lightly as possible. _JesusMaryandJoseph_ , she barely stopped herself from straddling him then and there. Beyond a nagging pull toward him, she didn’t remember much else until waking for the day and getting ready in a haze.

The bakery was a welcomed distraction. Esther mostly tolerated her these days, even if Margola was still a bit prickly. Tracking shipments and deliveries and payments was a bit more monotonous than what she was used to, but it was satisfying to actually see the work you’d accomplished at the end of a day. And to leave it there when you returned home in the evening. She loved her research. It was a wonderful passion. But it was an exhausting job. The bakery could be physically tiring sometimes–like the day the flour shipment had coincided with a freezing rainstorm, and the delivery man slipped. The whole back alley and receiving door ended up a slurried mess. But it turned out she liked rolling up her sleeves to do a bit of manual labor. And it didn’t hurt that it won the women’s respect either.

The only thing she didn’t much care for was the way the place was watched by Alfie’s rivals. She couldn’t tell if she just hadn’t noticed it at first, or if it had actually gotten worse over time. Either way, she kept her gaze hard any time she accidentally encountered one of them in the alley or in the bakery itself. Changretta’s lackeys swore the onion bread was the closest they could get to decent focaccia, but she suspected it was just an excuse to flirt with some of the younger women, or intimidate Tessa herself. She _had_ called their boss an asshat, after all.

So she was glad that no one had loitered around the bakery on that weary Monday. She bid goodbye to the last pair of women to leave and wrapped her coat tightly around herself, wondering idly how late Alfie would stay in his office. To say that the previous day had been hard on him was an understatement. She wouldn’t be surprised if he sequestered himself there for the night.

She left through the front door and locked it behind her. But when she turned toward the street, she found herself eye-to-eye with a rather frantic-looking man. He was tall and wiry, and wore a bushy mustache that hid his mouth almost completely. She saw a flash of metal from the bill of his hat and recalled what Alfie had said about the Blinder devils. After a brief moment, he cleared his throat and shoved his hands in his pockets.

She ought to have nodded politely and been on her way, but his twitchiness concerned her. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Maybe. I was looking to speak with Mr. Solomons.”

She took an only somewhat wild guess. “Are you one of the Shelbys, then?”

“Depends on who’s asking.”

She held out her hand and flashed a sweet Georgia smile. “Tessa Solomons.”

At that, he leaned back, apparently for a better look. His eyes crinkled when he smiled back and shook her hand. “The missus?”

The man presented no danger. She might have been a fool to think so, but she wasn’t unsettled by him the way she was so many of Alfie’s other associates. “Does my reputation precede me so much?”

“Not in a bad way, ma’am, not in a bad way at all.” He shoved his hands back into his pockets. “I think we was all just shocked to hear Solomons had married.”

She had heard the refrain before, and still didn’t have a great response. So she changed the subject. “Yes, well, I can direct you to him, if you’ve got a name.”

“Oh, right, where’s my manners? Arthur Shelby.”

She smiled politely and pointed toward the distillery’s back entrance. “In that case, I’m sure you already know where to find him. I trust he’ll make it home safely after your meeting?”

His own eyes looked satisfyingly surprised as they met hers, but he nodded calmly.

“A pleasure, Mr. Shelby.”

Feeling something like ten-feet-tall, she let her heels clack a bit harder against the street as she headed home.


	11. Chapter 11

Winter passed in relative peace. The air lost its biting chill, and temperate rain had started pricking the trees with tiny, pale green buds. Alfie and Tessa went about their daily routines without commotion, and hardly spoke of the future’s heavy pall. Per Alfie’s request, unless and until he started feeling worse, the cancer was not to be discussed. And at Tessa’s recommendation, they decided to wait for signals that the threat in Germany was rising before they went in guns blazing to redirect the course of history. They wouldn’t have known what to do anyway.

As time passed, Tessa found occasion to take tea with Polly, yet she still didn’t know whether to count the woman a friend or an enemy. But she knew she liked the Shelbys well enough. Alfie seemed to like them in his own way, so long as he held the upper hand in their dealings. He’d explained to her a bit about where everyone stood on the field of battle that was London criminal enterprise. She accused Alfie of being a double agent, playing both sides whenever it suited him. He laughed riotously at that.

It was in the midst of these explanations that Tessa fully appreciated how smart he could be. He claimed to have never had an interest in chess, but he had a penchant for predicting moves that his opponents might make as if he were an expert at the game. She found a sense of pride in that. In passing, she’d met a fair number of men from his world who were little more than boys playing pretend. Pretending they had power, influence, discernible wits. They held thin cigarettes between sneering smiles, cocked their hats with forced bravado, flirted with women who simply didn’t know better and then kept tally of conquests between themselves. They ogled nice cars, made plans to get their own once they’d saved up enough cash. They had guns, but didn’t know how to hold them properly. Not like Alfie.

At Ollie’s birthday celebration, Tessa learned that Alfie held a gun like it was an extension of his arm. Now, she had hated guns growing up. Georgia was full of them, owned by the most insufferable sorts of people. She hated them, hated the speed at which they could do so much blind damage. And that’s what she feared tonight as she watched the drunkard shaking on the ground…

* * *

“Remind me again why you’ve invited the Shelbys?”

Alfie stood in the bathroom, straight razor held midair as he paused his shaving to respond. “It’s an olive branch, is all.”

“Tommy heard about your meetings with the Italians?”

“Something like that.” The razor glinted as he scraped it along the rough skin of his neck. He only ever tidied his beard. She wondered what he looked like without it.

“Don’t you think Ollie might like a birthday that doesn’t have the significant potential to end up in a shoot-out?” Tessa had already finished dressing and was leaned against the hallway wall, watching her pretend husband clean and groom himself. Only when he was so focused on something else was she afforded the chance to stare in admiration, and she did so eagerly. As winter had passed, so did her self-control. She was no longer in the business of denying to herself that she wanted Alfie very badly. But that didn’t mean she had plans to do anything about it. For now, she watched every minute twitch of his arms as he trimmed his beard.

“Nah,” he grunted in mock offense. “Ain’t anybody getting shot tonight. It’s a friendly event, love. Rum’ll be on me, Tommy’s bringing his sad piss water for everyone to try. Could be the forging of an inimitable alliance, yeah?”

She smiled at him in the mirror, but she was skeptical. Everyone seemed so capable of turning on one another at the slightest provocation. Sometimes they seemed to do it out of boredom. And speaking to anyone about Alfie _except_ for Alfie always focused in on one, difficult to reconcile thing: a man who was out for himself. Perhaps that had been Alfie. Perhaps it still was. But it wasn’t a version she was familiar with.

“You sure it’s not just a ‘keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer’ kind of thing?”

His gaze met hers through the mirror and he winked. “Might be. Who’s to say?”

It was clear that she wasn’t going to get a straight answer out of him regarding his intentions with the Shelbys, so she gave up. Honestly, she didn’t mind that he played all of that business close to the vest. She hadn’t given him a reason not to trust her, but she didn’t expect him to divulge all of his plans either. It was probably better that she didn’t know, anyway—that way, at gatherings like Ollie’s birthday, she didn’t have to feign ignorance as she chatted amongst the wives.

_The wives._

While she knew, rationally, that playing the part of wife was necessary for survival in this situation, it didn’t make the performance any more enjoyable. Tessa had spent most of her adult life avoiding the very same sort of bizarre gender divide in Savannah, only to find herself seated with two wives, a sister, an aunt, and a woman she hadn’t quite placed in relation to the others. The lot of them were failing the Bechdel test miserably.

The only other blonde among them cleared her throat and smiled in Tessa’s direction. “Mrs. Solomons, dear, Polly mentioned you were from Georgia?”

She offered a nod in response as she sipped at her lukewarm gin and tonic.

“You know, Arthur and I thought about moving to Florida, once upon a time. Georgia is near to it, yes?”

“That’s right, just north.” She wondered if the reputation of Florida in the 1920s was so much better that people longed to move there. All that came to her own mind was Florida Man. She snorted into her drink.

“Now that you’ve lived some time in England, tell me: would we have survived the heat down there?”

Linda was a pleasant woman, and though she asserted her questions with too much intensity, Tessa appreciated how easy they were to answer.  “The difference in climate is rather shocking, but I’m sure you could have managed.”

The woman named Esme–John’s wife, if she was remembering right–leaned forward a bit and pursed her lips. “You like it here? I always imagined America to be wide open spaces, I’d find it hard to give that up. Even for Alfie.”

At his name, she nudged the tall thin woman…Lizzie, perhaps? The two seemed to share a quiet laugh.

“Oh don’t let them get to you,” Ada commented with a flick of her cigarette. Her words were dismissive, but her expression looked genuinely sympathetic. “I’m sure you’re no stranger to the attention Alfie receives.”

Before Tessa could respond, Linda jumped in. “He’s a handsome man, an objective statement of fact, and his authority can be an attractive quality. We mean no disrespect to you or your husband. Some of us,” she raised her voice in the direction of Esme, “ _forget ourselves_.”

In truth, Tessa didn’t mind. Well she _did_ , deep in her gut, where acrid jealousy began to stir. But above board, her attachment to Alfie was false, and the women’s attraction to him didn’t faze her.

“I take no offense,” she said with a smile. “I ought to take it as a compliment, knowing he’s such an admired man.”

“I do wonder,” Esme began with a serious brow. “How is he in bed?”

The lot of them erupted in a cacophony of laughter and shock. Finding herself somewhere in between those emotions, Tessa noticed her glass was empty and stood to head toward the bar. “I’m afraid that’s confidential,” she chuckled, trying to hide the rising flush on her neck. “If you’ll excuse me.”

The bar was close enough that she didn’t quite have to run to reach it in haste. She plopped herself onto a stool and caught the attention of the bartender, signaling that she’d have another gin, this time neat. She tried to keep it quiet around Alfie, but she wasn’t terribly fond of rum–always gave her a headache. So while Shelby’s gin was a touch too bitter for her taste, she shot it back gladly and immediately requested a third to sip more slowly.

In the solitude, she had a moment to think. She wasn’t used to being so social. She could manage it, but it sapped her energy and turned her mood sour as the evening passed. It was even worse, feeling you had to put on a show. Turning back toward the crowd, she scanned the room for her preferred company.

He sat casually at a table with his arm around Ollie, laughing as he told a story–at the expense of Ollie, if the young man’s reddening cheeks and rolling eyes were any indication. A few other familiar faces sat around them: men from the distillery, Tommy and his brothers. But it was a fool’s errand to pretend she had eyes for anyone but Alfie. Even at a distance, she could see the fine crow’s feet at his temples whenever he laughed. She adored them. With so many bodies in the room, the air had become stifling. She was nearly glad of that once she saw he’d removed his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves. Staring idly at his forearms as he gestured his story, she felt a hand land at her knee and heard a muffled, messy voice mumble at her.

She turned to her right and tried to smile politely. “I’m sorry?”

The strange man’s hand slid higher up her thigh and gave a foul squeeze. “I said, a fine woman such as yourself has no business alone at a bar.”

Tessa reached to remove his hand, but he grabbed her own instead. “I’m not alone. You may recognize my husband, he–”

“I don’t give a shit about your husband.” His breath reeked of sour gin, but his eyes were unsettlingly clear as he squeezed her hand.

She tried to avoid breathing through her nose as she leaned toward him to whisper. “Look asshole, I’m a certified crazy bitch, and I will eat your fucking face.”

It was a risk, but the scare tactic was her go-to method back home when a man wouldn’t leave her alone. Apparently it worked here as well. He frowned, looked at her in disgust, and let go of her hand before all but melting away. With any luck, he really was frightened of her.

Still ,she kept an eye on him as she made her way toward Alfie. She felt sure the man wouldn’t harass her again, but his touch had upset her, and in her tipsy state, all she really wanted was the comfort of Alfie’s protection. Trying her best to not make a scene, she walked up behind him, smiled gently at the rest of the men seated, and whispered into his ear.

At her words, his head snapped around. “Who?”

She pointed the man out. “I handled it, I just thought you should–”

“Oy!” He stood so fast that his chair wobbled, and his call boomed through the crowd as he made eye contact with the drunk. When he had his attention, he took Tessa’s arm and brought her with him as he strode over, a foot away from the man.

“You touch my wife?”

He peered behind Alfie to where Tessa stood and grinned like an absolute fool. Alfie didn’t care for that, grabbed the man by his collar with both hands and pulled him off his feet and close to his face. “If you so much as look at her again, I will extract your fucking eyeballs.”

Tessa couldn’t see his face, but she could see his back stretch wide with heavy breaths while his shoulder bunched with the weight of the man in his hands. Those who could see his face watched in abject fascination at what the Mad Baker might do.

When the drunk showed no fight, Alfie dropped him like a sack of potatoes and turned back toward Tessa, hands beginning to reach out. Then a voice came from the heap on the floor. “Both of you, mad fucking cunts.”

Tessa met Alfie’s eyes for a fleeting moment before he turned back around and drew his gun. Everyone in the room seemed to hold their breath, so when he spoke so clear and calm, Tessa felt it in her bones.

“I will shoot you.”

But he didn’t fire the gun. Just held it outstretched, a warning, like a sword pointed at a man who’d already been bested. The offender’s eyes slipped shut as he nodded in understanding, and Tessa heard a rumble come from Alfie as he withdrew.

When he turned to find her, she saw real worry in his eyes. He tucked his gun away and raised both of his hands to her face, cool against her flushed skin. “You alright?”

There wasn’t a scratch on her. The whole bit of intimidation on his part wasn’t really warranted, it wasn’t anything so serious as that. She was alright. Perfectly alright. But she didn’t want to answer, or he’d take his hands away. She liked the way he looked at her, a mix of concern and affection. And he looked good like this, his color rising, his breath a little heavier than usual. The furrow between his brows got deeper and deeper the longer she stayed silent, so she finally smiled and gave a shaky nod. He rubbed his thumb against her cheek in a gesture so soft and loving that she lost herself in the charade of their marriage and rushed forward for a kiss.

The last time she did that, she didn’t have the wherewithal to pay attention to how it felt or what she was doing. She vaguely remembered the tender give of his mouth, but lost all knowledge of what it really felt like.

This time, she lingered, more than was strictly necessary for merely putting on a show for the crowd. The gin was hitting her hard now, and he’d rushed to defend her honor, and God, he had a mouth like carnal fruit, plump and sweet. Even though he didn’t kiss her back, she hesitated to pull away. In the end, he had to make the break, holding her shoulders still as he leaned back.

He only looked at her for a split second before he turned in semi-circles to the crowd. “Show’s fucking over,” he called out, tucking Tessa beneath his arm as he led her away.

She’d made a goddamn fool of herself again. She had to stop kissing the man against his will! She’d embarrassed him so badly that he was saying his goodbyes and wishing Ollie one last happy birthday. He was guiding her out of the building and into his car, no doubt ashamed of her public display of affection.

He started the engine and began driving in silence.

“Alfie—“

“When we get home,” he said. “We’ll talk when we get home.” He spoke so evenly and calmly that she figured he must not be too upset. But his reluctance to speak made her nervous. So she stared out the window, trying to plan for what she’d say.

She wanted to vent out all of her feelings. Tell him that she’d grown fond of him, that she found herself wishing their relationship wasn’t just an act, that even as she sobered up, she wanted nothing more than to climb him like a tree. But she couldn’t say any of that without embarrassing herself further.

So when they arrived home and he shut the door softly, she watched him for a signal of where their conversation would begin.

His palm rested flat against the door and he appeared to look at his feet. His voice rumbled from beneath the brim of his hat. “You fucking swear you’re alright? I’ll go back and kill ‘im.”

The declaration was so melodramatic that she couldn’t help but roll her eyes. “I don’t want you to kill him.”

He finally looked up at her with a curt nod. “That was a real kiss.”

It wasn’t a smooth transition, but there was no point in beating around the bush. She wanted to deny it, felt comfortable denying it, but the prospect of something more was just too tempting. “And if it was?” Surely her heart would burst from her chest.

He met her face-to-face then, close enough that the edges of his coat rubbed against the sides of her legs. “None of that. Tell it true.”

Slowly, so that she wouldn’t bump into him, she reached for his hat and lifted it from his head. She gave him enough time to stop her, but he held still as the felt clung to strands of his hair before releasing them for her to see. She ran the fingers of her free hand through his hair, scraped dull nails against his scalp. She’d dreamt of doing it too many times as he lay sleeping next to her.

She watched his eyelids droop and knew what he was feeling. The warm satisfaction of someone playing gently with your hair. “I’m sorry Alfie, I couldn’t help it. You looked—“

“You drunk?”

“Wh—? No,” it came out as a laugh and before she could continue, he devoured her in a kiss and it turned into a yelp.

It was insistent, edged with teeth, and made all the more breathtaking when he pulled her tightly to his chest. Once she had her wits about her, she pulled at him just as forcefully, arms wrapped around his thick neck, and tugged at his lips with her own. He grunted softly as he drank from her and the sound made her so dizzy she had to pull back.

He scanned her face briefly before kissing her cheek, her jaw, and then her neck. The heat coming from him, the inelegant sounds he made, she could hardly stand anymore. “Alfie, my knees are gonna give out,” she warned, weak but elated to feel his mouth on her skin.

He pulled back with a groan and began carefully removing his overcoat and his jacket, and unfastening his cufflinks. He lifted his chin in the direction of the armchair next to the unlit fireplace and undid the top two buttons of his shirt

“Sit down.”


	12. Chapter 12 (NSFW)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (note the rating change)

It was dark. **  
**

He could have lit a fire, but this wasn’t exactly a planned evening, and he didn’t want to take the time. If he paused for a moment, she might change her mind.

So they would do… _whatever_ they were about to do…in the dark. A crime, really, ‘cause it meant he wouldn’t get to see her. But all he’d been able to do before was look. Now it was time to touch.

He finished unbuttoning his shirt and rolled the sleeves up to his elbows. He was warm, too warm to stay buttoned up, but there was no need to undress yet.

“You comfortable?” The low pitch of his voice startled him, but better that than shaky with nerves.

“I’m fine. Alfie, come back to me,” she called to him from the chair.

This bit he’d thought out already. He had no idea how to tell her what he really felt, but he’d imagined exactly how this would happen, how he’d please her the first time. If she was willing. The idea came courtesy of a dream, the most frustrating, glorious dream of his life, and now he was too eager to know if it could be as glorious in the flesh as it had been in his imagination.

He stepped up to the seat where she was poised, though he could barely see her. In what little moonlight came through the window, he could only make out the sharp tip of her nose, and the curve of her calves covered in hose. He knelt on the rug, its carpeting hardly soft beneath his knees, and reached for her hands. Small things, clean and soft in his. He rubbed this thumbs in light circles against the backs of them and began.

“I’m a man of action, Tess, not words,” he whispered. “You can talk. I want to hear you, _fuck me_ , I do. But, I can’t–I’m not fucking fit for love declarations tonight. Can’t even think straight with you here like this.”

It was a long moment before she spoke, but as she did, she squeezed his fingers. “Me sitting down, you on your knees. If this ain’t some big confession…?” She trailed off. Not a hint of anger, just bare confusion.

He lifted one of her hands and pressed his mouth against its knuckles. “Look: living every day so close to you? And not being able to touch you? Fucking _torture_ , I mean my God, you’re… I just want to—can I…?”

Thank God she heard the desperation in his voice and leaned forward to stop him talking with a kiss. A soft but steady thing, full of reassurance. He let go of her hands so he could run his own up her legs. Small nicks and calluses on his fingers snagged for fleeting moments on her hose.

“Alfie.” Even his name tasted better coming out of her mouth. “I want you to–anything. Do anything.”

His heart stopped at those words, then pounded back to life and sucked the breath out of him. He paused a moment, his lips grazing against her nose as he tried to collect his thoughts.

“Lean back for me.”

He heard her let out a heavy breath as she followed his instruction. He moved both hands under her skirt to the garter clasp that held her right stocking in place and released it. In the darkness, he had to let his fingers guide him, but he was glad for it. And then a wicked, fucking _beautiful_ idea came to him. He lowered his face toward her lap, slowly enough that she could protest if she wanted. He shoved the edge of her skirt up and out of the way, tucked his fingers under the edge of her stocking, and placed his mouth just above them on top of her thigh. Fuck, he could practically smell how badly she needed tending to, and it hardened him in an instant. She squirmed a bit and he looked up.

“This alright?”

She let out a throaty, absolutely filthy laugh. “The pace is slow murder, but yes.”

God, she made him smile like a fool. He started rolling the stocking down her thigh and ran the tip of his nose along the soft flesh as he exposed it. He kissed her knee when he reached it, sliding the rest of the garment off her leg by smoothing his palm down her calf. When it was gone, and her shoe removed, he switched to her left thigh to repeat the process, this time with soft presses of his lips instead of his nose. The stocking rolled past her shin, and when he could get to her ankle, he placed tiny kisses on the knobby bones there.

She laughed and nearly kicked him in the face.

“Your beard tickles too much there.” She pulled her foot away from his hands and placed it on the floor so she could lean down for a kiss. He humored her for a moment before nudging her back.

He kept his hands on her bare thighs, still only half believing he was finally able to touch her. “Mm, I’ll put it elsewhere, then.”

He’d never quite imagined the mechanics of ridding her of any clothing except for the stockings, so it took a minute before he figured out where her skirt fastened. He unzipped it, glad that it was placed on the side and not the back of the garment, then tucked his fingers under the waistband. He felt her stomach rise and fall with her rapid breathing and fuck if that didn’t get him more excited, knowing she was just as eager as he.

“Lift up.”

When she raised her hips, he looked up to see her staring intently, trying to suppress a grin. So he held her gaze as he tugged the skirt down, off of her hips and down her recently bared legs.

Likely as a reflex, she crossed her ankles, clamping her legs together. _Very counterproductive_. But prying them apart didn’t seem the gentlemanly thing to do, so he started a slow trail of kisses. Up the seam of her round thighs, warm where they pressed together, across the soft fabric of her panties, until his nose hit her navel. There, just above her underwear’s waistline, he laved a damp, lazy, open-mouthed kiss.

Oh and her _reaction_. Fucking perfection, the way she arched up into him and whined.

“Easy, love.”

A half laugh blew through her nose and he saw her shake her head out of the corner of his eye. “You can’t tell me to hold still if you’re gonna use your mouth like that.”

In her squirming, she’d opened her legs just a touch, so he took advantage and lowered his mouth to the soft flesh of her inner thigh. “Like this?” A firm kiss, a light lick, the barest graze of his teeth, and suddenly she was spreading her knees beneath him.

“You mean to kill me.”

“ _Never_. Just mean to savor.”

Her whispered curse at his word choice was enough clearance to peel away the last barrier between himself and his task. It was a thin, negligible garment, but its removal stopped both their breathing.

For a second.

For five seconds.

What the fuck was he waiting for? So he stopped thinking, started feeling. Ran his fingertips up her legs until he could reach around and grab her ass. It was full and heavy in his hands, better than he could have anticipated, and even though he’d grabbed it for a practical reason, he lingered like that until she leaned forward and dug her fingers into his hair. She kissed him again, like she had at the pub: overwhelmed, thirsty, guided by impulse alone.

Then in one swift movement, he pulled her to the edge of her seat until his chest forced her thighs apart. She leaned back slowly, dragging her hand along his arm as they separated, looking smug like this had all been _her_ idea. Set his fucking skin on fire. When she was settled, he lifted her right leg onto the plush arm of the chair, and leaned back on his haunches.

The sight nearly ended him. Tessa, his lovely Tessa, spread out before him in the dark, primed for fucking worship like the queen she was.

Oh but he was a selfish man, indulging in a view like this. He was forgetting his task. But he hardly knew where to begin.

He returned to the tender inside of her thigh starting at her knee, and kissed up, up until he met the juncture of her pelvis. One hand on her waist, he kissed just above the swell of her mound and ran two fingers of his other hand along her seam. Already slick.

“Fuck, Tess.” His voice came out muffled and little more than air, and she pressed her hips up into him at the sound until his fingers slipped the rest of the way through her folds. “Lemme taste you?”

“ _Please_ ,” long and plaintive, so desperate he almost worried she was hurting.

So he didn’t hesitate. Ran his tongue flat and wide up the silver sharp heat of her. Not quite sweet, but near enough to it that he couldn’t think of another word. Couldn’t think of words at all, just the marvel of her reactions. He sucked at the swollen flesh around her clit, just like he’d sucked on the sharp curve of her upper lip, and she nearly jumped off the fucking chair. He licked languidly through her folds, near her entrance, and she grabbed his hair tight in one fist. Fuck, it pulled a groan out of him that vibrated through her and she pulled tighter and tried to close her thighs against his ears, so he licked firmer and sucked harder, wrapped one arm around her hip, held her waist down with his palm, ran blunt nails along the back of her thigh, groaned and cursed against her when she whined his name in broken syllables, and fuck, did he even know that a woman could be so fucking wet? Maybe it was just her, maybe it was what he did to her, and _that_ thought made him feel like a goddamn giant among men that maybe, just maybe, he did something special for her.

He pressed his tongue tight against her clit and tested her response, tried to figure out what she liked, and then he couldn’t resist knowing how she felt inside. Slipped one finger, then two into the depths of her, curled them upwards, and that drew an absolutely primal sound out of her. Fingers busy, he had a moment to glance up and see her wrecked, just–

“So fucking beautiful like this.”

She didn’t seem to hear.

“You gonna come for me?”

She threw her head forward and nodded frantically, teeth dug into her bottom lip. He lowered his mouth to her lap, “I wanna feel you come, Tess.” He sucked hard at her clit as he curled his fingers upward one last time and she broke.

Broke and pulled tight into herself, tight around him, arched up and breathed one relieved, transcendent word, his own fucking name.

He dragged his fingers in and out slowly, drawing out as much pleasure from her as he could, and even though it was dark, he looked up to meet her stare. She rocked her hips along with his movements and locked their gazes, smiling softly until he smiled too. And then she laughed, bright and warm.

Later on, he’d pinpoint that moment as the realization that there’d never be another woman for him. She was it. All of it. Fuck, if he wasn’t gonna live much longer, at least he’d found this before he left. He slipped his fingers out altogether and rested his hand on her soft stomach as he placed one last kiss on her to her knee. “Good?”

She pulled her legs together and stretched, long and languid as she nodded. “Your beard.”

“What about it?”

She leaned forward and tugged gently at it, shit-eating grin plastered across her beautiful face. “Completely soaked.”

“Yes, well, that’s your doing.”

“No, dear husband, that’s your doing.”

 _Husband_.

God, why did that fucking word feel like a knife to the heart. He liked it coming from her lips, liked it more than he really ought to.

His face must have dropped, because she stood up and pulled him up with her. His knees protested, he was fucking falling apart, but it was alright in the end because she grabbed the edges of his shirt front and kissed him. Really leaned into it, wrapped herself around him, and though his jaw was sore, he kissed her back just as fiercely. When she needed air, she tore away and buried her nose in his neck. Slipped her hands under his open shirt and wrapped her arms around his back, skin-to-skin.

And when she let go, it was only to guide him to the bedroom. To the huge fucking bed that felt empty for far too long. That she filled up so nicely. And she laid him on his back, perched herself in his lap, took his cock into her tight heat, and rode him to their exhaustion: _better than he deserved, so much better than he fucking deserved, beautiful and loving and taking care of him and better than he deserved._


	13. Chapter 13 (NSFW)

Sweaty.

Why did she feel so _sweaty_?

She breathed deeply, trying to wake herself a bit more, and smelled soft cologne. Alfie.  _Sweaty_. She smiled, even laughed a little, right into the warm flesh between his shoulder blades. Her neck, her cleavage, likely the underside of her left arm where it clung to him, were slick with sweat because she’d wrapped herself around him like a goddamn monkey at some point in the night.

In her defense, he was immensely comforting. And she’d been longing to do this for months. On days off, she nearly always woke before him and stared at him with a deep yearning to touch. To squeeze, even. To learn the feel of his skin with fingertips, but also to press the build of his bones and the shape of his muscles into her body’s memory. She was still a bit sore from the previous night’s attempts to do just that. But the good kind of sore, the type she’d gladly suffer again.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, she’d _slept_ with him. She had to chew at her lip to keep from squealing, because something inside her felt an immense amount of pride. For once in her life, she’d stopped trying to predict every possible consequence of her action and just let herself have something. And god bless Alfie Solomons, the man had a lot to give.

Tessa was no shrinking violet. She had standards, most certainly, but she’d had her fair share of lovers as well. Decent lays, with a few exceptions–both disappointing and delightful. She even loved a couple of them once upon a time. But the alchemy between her and Alfie was of a different caliber altogether. Maybe it was the build-up. Maybe it was the inherent danger. But _no_. She shook her head, lying in bed with no one else to see her mental conversation with herself. No, it was the slow way he touched and the soft faces he made–no man with a tongue so sharp and a temper so fiery should be allowed such soft expressions. And it was his mouth. That source of a seemingly endless torrent of expletives had been made of magic and wonder this whole time. She scrunched her whole face into a giddy smile at the memory of that mouth. Where it had been and what it had done and how it had felt. An ache grew between her legs like an echo. She’d never understood the fuss other’s made about it, but he’d gone down on her _properly_ –enthusiastic, painstakingly thorough, and slow. Dear god, he knew the benefits of patience and persistence.

She felt her heart skip a beat at that thought. He was a crass brute sometimes, but he made such an effort and took such time, like maybe he really cared for her. No matter his feelings, she loved him for it. Before she could think twice, she brushed her nose against the hair at the nape of his neck and pressed a tender kiss there like a secret. He stirred beneath the sheet for a minute, then turned blindly to face her. Nose twitching, mouth frowning, eyebrows pulled in tight–he never greeted the morning with any amount of joy. But one eye opened, then another, and he almost smiled at the sight of her.

He reached both hands up to scratch at his matted hair. “You sleep alright?” _How was she supposed to come up with an answer when he was stretching and tensing every visible inch of himself?_

She felt a blush creep up her neck, across her cheeks, and to the tips of her ears as his shoulders flexed. “Like a dream. You?”

In a movement faster than she knew he was capable of, he crawled on top of her, elbows braced on either side of her ribcage. “Fuck dreams, don’t need them anymore.” He took a moment to look at her, tired eyes meeting one another, and hair disheveled. Then his mouth was at her neck and his hand kneaded her breast and she reached under the sheet for his cock as if it were routine.

He pulled back with an almost shy grin. “Eager this morning?”

“Greedy.”

She stroked him gently and he grunted, bucked his hips seemingly against his will. When she spread her legs enough for him to wedge his hips between her thighs, he dropped his forehead to hers. “Fucking hell, woman. You sure you’re ready?”

She was ready enough and helped guide him in. She didn’t recall such a stretch last night, and it nearly took her breath away, but she didn’t mind. He was in her and around her and still wanted her. In the back of her mind, she had worried that he’d sate his curiosity in one go and they’d return to platonic cohabitation. But now, in the musk and heat and low light of dawn, in the way he gripped her thigh and lifted it around his waist between thrusts, she let herself slip into the fantasy that he was making love.

His thrusts slowed and shallowed and he put a hand to her cheek. “You alright?”

“Hm?”

At that, he stopped altogether and rolled the both of them until they were on their sides, facing each other. “You look about a hundred miles away there, love.”

_That pet name_. It was _only_ that, little more than a stutter or a bit of punctuation, and plenty of people in Camden used it. But it was still foreign to her. So much was foreign, so much was without precedent, that she did all she could think of in the moment.

“I’ve fallen in love with you, Alfie.” Her thumb ran across his lower lip, the rest of her hand against his cheek, so she could feel the hot exhale of his shock. “I didn’t even mean to, I just–”

His mouth crashed against hers, his arms pulled her so tightly to him that she could hardly breathe, and only when he rolled his hips did she realize he was still planted deep in her. When he ran out of air, he pulled back just enough to speak, but kept his lips against hers. “Goddamn it Tess, you shouldn’t have. But I love you too fucking much to care.”

It was her turn to freeze in shock. “Wait, you love me?”

He stared at her with wide eyes, like the answer was obvious. “‘Course I do. Woulda said so last night, just couldn’t think of anything but getting my mouth on you. Wanted to explain myself properly when I had my wits about me.”

She watched him for a moment, trying to quell her growing excitement, and when she pressed her hand to his chest and felt his thudding heart, a wave of relief washed over her. “Oh thank god. I’ve been itching to throw myself at you, but I thought maybe I was being foolish.”

“Not entirely convinced that loving me isn’t foolish, yeah? Think I question your judgment, really.”

The whole world felt lighter in the midst of their easy, open humor and affection. She threw her leg over his hip and carded her fingers through his hair until he started grinding against her. When he nudged at her chin, she expected a kiss, but he wanted her to meet his eyes. In the morning light, they looked almost grey, like soft fog, and the intensity in them had her hitching her breath. His thrusts were lazy, but full and steady, and on every third or fourth stroke, he’d blink slowly or his nostrils would flare and she knew that doing this again, now with the knowledge of loving each other, was getting to him too. “Alfie?”

“Tess?” Only there, in the whispered hiss of her name, could she hear just how wrecked he was. It sent a fresh wave of desire through her.

“I want–” but she was losing herself.

“What? Tell me, I’ll do it.” He shifted himself back over her and when he lifted her knee to hook around his back, the change in angle turned everything desperate.

“Kiss me.”

He obliged with a small laugh. It was a fine kiss, better than fine, but his mouth was gone too soon, and it felt like such an injustice in that moment that she pulled at the back of his neck. “Keep kissing me. Fuck, Alfie, the face you make when you–” _always a grunt after she said his name_ “when you come, I wanna kiss you through it.”

“Goddamn it,” and he did as she had begged. That mouth again. Soft one moment, firm the next, demanding but tender, and scorching hot. He was setting a frantic pace now, the base of his cock pressing into her clit with each thrust as he chased release, but his kisses never faltered. Her fingers skated over his arms and shoulders, hard and tensed with the effort of holding himself up, but his kisses never faltered. Only on the final stroke did his mouth go slack for a moment–the moment she’d been waiting for, when his steadfast control slipped and her lips could guide him back until his hips stopped jerking.

Then lazy kisses. Through her own release, through their trembling aftershocks, through their reluctant separation, through heavy limbs and encroaching sleep. She dreamed that there was no second war, there was no cancer. And that he was back in Savannah with her, his embrace as warm and heady as the smell of oak moss and honeysuckle carried on the humid breeze.

* * *

He supposed it was a point of pride that she’d nodded off to sleep not five minutes after their morning romp. He watched her for a bit, marvelled at the way she smirked in her sleep, stroked her hair away from her forehead. A man could get used to lying in bed next to a sight like that. But the longer he stared, the larger the pit in his stomach grew.

He cursed himself for gambling with money he didn’t have. Fucking falling in love, and waiting until he was dying to do it. Ah, but he knew better, it wouldn’t have happened in the first place if it weren’t for the cancer. Dying planted a “fuck it, why not?” attitude somewhere inside him. But she wasn’t meant to end up collateral damage. She weren’t supposed to love him back. Even in prime health, he wasn’t London’s most prized bachelor–foul-mouthed, unpredictable, getting a bit long in the tooth. But now she certainly deserved better than he could offer.

And she shouldn’t have to–

Fuck, he didn’t even like thinking about it. He had to get her back to her proper time before things got any worse. Couldn’t stand the idea that she’d be around to watch him waste away. Once upon a time, he figured he’d get himself killed, quick and clean, before it ever got debilitating. But he couldn’t do that to Tess either. The only solution was to send her away.

She didn’t belong with him anyway.

He reminded himself of that as he was led into Shelby’s office that morning in a last ditch effort to find some answers.

Tommy had a smug sort of sadness about him. Like he thought his tortured soul was more tortured than anyone else’s and that somehow made him superior. Even just sitting in his chair there, he looked like one of them melancholy film dandies. Alfie could hardly suppress the impulse to ask him what he was so fucking mopey about. But he spoke first.

“Wasn’t sure I’d heard right when Arthur mentioned you’d be stopping by.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a charitable man, Thomas, gifting you my presence.”

“What can I do for you, Alfie?”

_Bear with me while I ask you a weird fucking question._ “You pikeys, you’re a superstitious lot, yeah? Folk tales and whatnot?”

Tommy took a slow drag from his cigarette and lifted his chin. It was a risk, starting out so boldly. Shelby had lost his wife to a poorly aimed bullet, but rumor had it, the man blamed a fucking cursed jewel. And here he was, prodding at the wound.

“I could make jokes at the expense of your people, too. State your business.”

“That is my fucking business, Shelby, I need the wisdom of your gypsy forebearers.” He paused a minute, trying to settle himself into a casual tone. “Tell me then, they got any tales about travelers?”

“Traveling is the gypsy way. Don’t need tales for it.”

“No, not the fucking wagons and all that, I’m talking something a little more…unnatural. Say, traveling through time.”

“Look Alfie, I dunno what you’re pulling, but I’ve got work to do. Get to your point or leave me be.”

“I fucking said it, mate, time travel. Do you know any stories about time travel.”

That stopped his dismissiveness. But for all the suspicion in his face, Tommy played along. “Can’t think of any gypsy stories that fit the bill. But me Irish side says it sounds like fairy business.”

That piqued his interest. “Alright, yeah maybe. How’s it work?”

“Dunno. Look, any old nan can turn any old story into a warning against fairies. Somebody travels to the past? To the future? Ay, must be the fae folk.”

It was too vague. Maybe he was mocking him. “Christ, you are useless, and this is not helpful.”

“Alfie, what the hell is this about?”

He shouldn’t have come. Hopefully Shelby’d just chock it up to his being eccentric and disregard it. “Nothing. Had a niggling little memory of an old story, is all. Thought I heard it from one of your pikey brethren.”

“You’d not risk coming here in broad daylight, Changretta’s men patrolling the both of us, just for a story.”

“Let it go, Thomas, have a nice rest of your day.” He turned on his heel to leave, but Tommy stopped him.

“There’s one…not sure it qualifies, but I heard it from a Welshman, serving in France.”

Alfie turned back and took a step toward him, intrigued.

“A young woman finds the diary of a man from three hundred years ago. Falls in love with him, begs the fairies to bring them together. She has to fetch something for them, uh, a stone, I think, then they’ll grant her request. They fashion the stone into some piece of jewelry, maybe? Tell her to wear it and she’ll find her love. She puts it on and vanishes.”

“Well where’d she go? She go back to him?”

Tommy eyed him in confusion, he must’ve looked too eager. “I dunno, that’s the end of the story.”

“What’d the stone look like?”

“It was the middle of the war, Alfie. I didn’t think to ask follow-up questions.”

He stroked his beard and looked around, trying to decide if the story held any answers. It was something, at least. “Right, well, that’ll do.”

* * *

She had only been awake long enough to redress and settle into the couch with a book when he barreled through the front door, making a fuss. “Think I’ve worked it out.”

“Worked what out?”

He took his hat off, then his coat, then set the kettle on. “Jewelry. You come here with any jewelry?”

She dog-eared the page she’d been reading and closed the book. “Some earrings.”

He stopped his frantic movements and stared at her. “You wearing them now?”

“No, I haven’t worn them since that night.”

“But you have them. Here, now?”

“Yeah, they’re in the bedside drawer. Why?”

“Can I see them?”

It only took her a moment to retrieve them, and when she dropped them into his cupped palm, she let her fingers linger on his. The fiery jewels looked comically small in his hand.

“Where’d you get them?”

“A thrift store. In Atlanta, I think.”

“And you were wearing them the night you arrived here?”

“Yeah. I wore them every day for nearly a month after I bought them.”

“Why don’t you ever wear them now?”

She shrugged. “They got irritating. Itched, made my ears red. Cheap costume jewelry always does that to me after a while.”

He inspected them closely and shook his head. “Real gold, real opal. These aren’t cheap, Tess.”

“I bought ‘em for two bucks. Why are you so fascinated by them?”

“I think these might’ve done it.”

“Done what?”

“Brought you here.”

“What, like cursed jewelry?” She shook her head at the notion. “Seems a little silly.”

“Well how do you think you got here?”

“I don’t know, a worm hole maybe?” She laughed softly, put her hand on his arm. He was too serious about it for her liking. “I decided to stop thinking about it, it all seemed so–”

“Silly, yes, it’s all fucking ludicrous, I know. But why _not_ this?”

He recounted the story Tommy had told him, and she watched in rapt attention. It was a darling, romantic idea. Love that spanned the centuries, that made people do outlandish things. But it was bizarre to hear who it had come from.

“What made Tommy tell you this?”

She thought she caught a look of guilt flash across his face. “I asked him if he knew any old folk stories about time travel. Thought it might be a place to begin.”

“To begin what?”

Now she was sure she saw guilt in the shameful way he averted his eyes. “Getting you back where you belong.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of gun violence ahead.

Tessa had never taken a punch to the gut, but she imagined it felt an awful lot like the breathlessness she had to push through now as she watched Alfie avoid looking at her. “Back to my time, you mean.”

“Right. Where you belong.”

She didn’t like the way he kept his eyes down. As a matter of fact, she didn’t like what he was suggesting at all. Why was he suggesting it now? “Tell me Alfie, why do I belong there?”

“It’s your home, yeah. Your family and friends are there, the work you love. Your, what’s it called? Internet, you talk about.”

She barely clipped out a sharp “yeah,” in her effort to keep calm. She’d told him she loved him just hours ago, now he wanted to get her back to the Internet?

“You sound—“

He finally looked up and the bare confusion in his eyes infuriated her. Surely he knew he was breaking her heart. “What? What do I sound like?”

“Well, there’s an edge to your voice.”

“Anger maybe.”

“Might be anger, yeah.”

“Yeah, well, I’m fucking angry.”

“At me?”

“Yes, at you! At myself, for thinking—“

But he interrupted her, his own rage surfacing. “I may have just found a way to get you home and you’re mad at me?”

“That’s not—damn it Alfie, I’m mad because I thought that…you said you loved me.” She took a step forward, as if being just a little closer to him might bring him back to his senses.

“Why else would I try to get you home?”

“You love me so much you want me to leave?”

Then the boom of his voice knocked the breath out of her once more. “No, I don’t. I don’t ever want you to leave.” She had longed to hear those words, but the way his whole body shook with the ferocity of them was almost frightening. “Goddamn it, I want you to stay here, right by my side. I want to live fifty more years, all of them with you. I want to have never gone to war, never lived as a criminal, never worked myself into this fucking world that‘s not meant for peace or happiness. I have never had cause to regret a single thing in my life, but fuck it all if it got me a life with you. A life where we make babies.” The weight of that admission silenced him and he grimaced for a moment before he continued in quieter, steadier voice. “Scads of them, looking just like you. And I make you happy, give you the whole fucking world, yeah? Wouldn’t it be lovely? But fuck, it doesn’t matter what I want. Doesn’t matter what you want. I’m dying.” Finally, he met her eyes, shook his head when he saw tears welling in them. “I’m dying, Tessa, and I’ll not leave you here by yourself.”

She couldn’t look at him, that handsome face full of sorrow, trying to disguise it as anger. So she stared at the floor for a moment. When she finally blinked, the tears were so heavy, they dropped to the ground without touching her cheek. “I’m not leaving.”

“Yes, you are.”

Her head snapped up and she sobbed out a hopeless laugh. “No, Alfie, I’m not. Not leaving this, not leaving you.” A calm statement of fact, even if he didn’t know it yet, even if she didn’t quite know either. “Jesus, you think watching you die is the worst thing I could experience? You say I’d be going back, like it’s home, but it won’t be home anymore, will it? Leaving you to die alone, myself with nowhere to rest my grief. _That_ would be the worst thing. Living like an out of place ghost. I can’t do that.”

“Fuck, Tessa, I’m tryna save you from a broken heart.”

“Already broken, Alfie! Been broken since you told me you were dying. But then last night, the way you touched me, god, I felt it healing. And this morning when you said you loved me…didn’t matter that you’re dying. You gave me that. And there’s more there.” She tucked her arms tight across her chest and shook her head. “So I’m not leaving on account of your pride.”

“My pride?”

“Yes, your pride. You’re too proud to let anyone see you suffer, see you weak. But do you really think I care about that?”

He strode toward her on heavy feet, cutting through the room so quickly that she felt the air he displaced brush by her. He pointed first at her, then at his own chest. “I have the right to choose the circumstances of my own fucking death.”

Tears started leaking out of her without any prompting, but still she raised her chin. “Pride to the point of hubris, huh?”

He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them slowly, and a calm washed over him. She flinched for the briefest moment when he grabbed her shoulders, so he relaxed his hands. Just sat them there, grounding her to the spot, making sure she was looking at him. “You know what a dying man looks like? One that fades real slow? Is that how you want to remember me?”

Oh, then she realized it, all of it, his whole line of reasoning. He didn’t want her remembering him like that. And sure, she thought he was being foolish, but she understood it. Saw it in his sad eyes. And she respected it. She untucked her arms, shrugged her shoulders free of his hands, and pressed her palms flat against his chest. He was still so alive, so warm and strong under her touch, that it was a struggle to believe he was ill at all. But she wanted to offer him solace. Or at least a compromise.

“Alright. You choose how you go. But I choose to be there. To the very end, do you understand me?”

He squinted down at her, face in a full frown, and grunted. “Fucking stubborn, you know that?”

The tension broke and she couldn’t stop herself from leaning a little more weight into him. “Yeah, my mother tells me all the time.”

“Mm, well, so long as you know.” He hugged her in silence, and when he spoke again, she could feel it in her hair. “I still stand by not wanting you stuck here.”

She spoke into his neck where she’d buried her nose. “I’ll keep the earrings. Don’t know if they’d work, or how they’d work. But I’ll keep them.”

She felt him nod, strands of her hair catching against his beard, and she slipped her hands down from his chest, around his back to hug him closer.

“Right, well, now that’s sorted. Give us a kiss?”

She did so gladly, startled to find that it felt more intimate than any of their previous kisses. She relished the softness of his mouth, the softness of his affection now that they had shared fears and intentions.

It was the start of a new facet of their relationship—comfort, refuge, a shaky kind of vulnerability. There was still so much to talk about, but it was good, like this, in his arms, him knowing her heart. Knowing that she wasn’t going anywhere.

* * *

“Are you sure you don’t want me stay? I can handle it.”

Tessa smiled at her dear friend and shook her head. “No, I’ll wait for it, you’ve already put in too much time this week.”

Mona was as dedicated a worker as she’d been a friend, so much so that Tessa had to be careful not to overwork her. No doubt she could have managed the late delivery, but Alfie was staying late as well, so it only made sense for Tessa to wait for it and send the girl home.

“Have a nice night, then. See you tomorrow!”

“Same to you, dear.”

The bell above the door jingled as Mona disappeared into the streets, leaving Tessa in the comfortable solitude of the bakery. The delivery was scheduled for half-past seven, only a half hour away, but it was that magical half hour that turned the bright evening to dusk. It wasn’t really long enough to rationalize seeking out Alfie, and the light was so lovely inside the bakery that she stayed behind the counter to daydream while she waited.

In some ways, she wished this whole mess had been reversed—that Alfie had been pulled forward into her time, her home. He’d have better medical care, no doubt, and no second war to worry about. But there would’ve been different evils, she supposed. And in a selfish way, she liked the slightly slower pace of life in the past. Perhaps it had worked out for the best. Still, she’d love to see him in the hazy twilight of the old parts of Savannah.

But the ring of the bell above the door woke her sharply from her reverie and she paused the thought for another time as he walked around the counter.

“You’re earlier than I expected,” she noted, before getting a proper look at him.

Odd. Didn’t look like the usual delivery man. A bit overdressed. His hands fidgeted around and he wore a half-scowl on his face, even as he spoke.

“Tell your piece of shit husband we saw him meet with Shelby.”

“What?”

“Deal’s off.”

She tried to make a mental note of precisely what he was saying, but he kept twitching, looked like a man possessed in the eyes. He sounded like a character in a Scorsese film, definitely American, surely one of Luca’s men.But before she could ask, she heard a deafening pop and felt her body jerk. She looked at the man to see if he’d felt it too, but he was standing stock still, frowning as he lowered a small pistol.

And then she felt it: pain like none other in her life buckled her at the knees. Her leg, her fucking leg must be in pieces. It felt like she had shrapnel for bones, but she was too afraid to look down. She looked at the man instead. He looked out the door behind him, then hesitated like he might help her. In the end, he ran out into the street, leaving the bell to jingle.

Now she was on the floor. When had she dropped to the floor? And there was blood, an awful lot of blood she thought, and the pain was blinding, and she was dizzy. From the blood loss? From the pain? From the shock of being shot, oh my god, _I’ve been shot._

She needed to get up, get help, get to a fucking hospital, but she was sure her knee was shattered, completely unusable. So she’d have to crawl. Alfie was close by. Maybe if she could reach the counter, she could pull herself up and limp there.

The bell rang again, thank god, Alfie must’ve heard the shot and come to find her.

“Alfie.”

“What the hell happened?”

She looked up to see the lean, twiggy figure of Arthur Shelby, eyes wide as he swiped his hat from his head.

“Arthur?”

“Who did this?”

“I’m dying, Arthur, I’ve been shot.” Her vision started to blur and her thoughts went swimmy.

“You got hit in the leg, love, you’re not gonna die. Did you see who it was?”

“Alfie was right, I don’t belong here. I’m gonna die in the past.”

He knelt to the ground and scooped her into his arms. “Who did this?”

She felt herself fading, she could hardly remember. “Italian. Said he saw it, said the deal’s off.”

“Saw what?” She felt herself bounce with each hurried step he took, and those small jolts were all that kept her awake.

She looked up at his face. He looked rather like a cartoon at that moment, but he was saving her and she liked him immensely just now, even if she was out of her mind with pain.

“Arthur.”

“S’alright Mrs. Solomons, I’m taking you to Alfie.”

“I’m not supposed to be here,” she whispered, groaning through the pain, only vaguely aware that she should shut her mouth. But it felt like she was dying, like she’d rather die than keep feeling this pain, and everything was absurd. “How funny. I’m going to die before I’m born.”

Then suddenly he was no longer walking, he was kicking at a door.

She heard Alfie’s voice clear as day through her thinning thoughts. “Beating my door in like a fucking madman.”

When he appeared in her field of vision with a wide swing of the door, she tried to look up into his eyes. But the relief of knowing he was there washed over her like sleep. One of them said “Luca,” and she was gone.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic violence, description of injury, and bloodiness ahead. I’ve probably done Luca a bit dirty, making him the outright antagonist of this story, so be fair-warned if you’re a fan of his. Also, the use of a holy meal to facilitate a bit of murder is only something I was willing to do because…well…he’s already done it in the show once before. Also, don’t even try to apply the show timeline to what’s happening here, I’ve abandoned that altogether.

Arthur fucking Shelby, making a fuss after hours like a savage. Alfie pulled the nastiest grimace he could manage across his face and flung the door open, ready to rant.

What he saw sent his heart to his feet: Tessa, cradled in Arthur’s arms, blood spilling from her leg, the sticky red of it made all the brighter in stark contrast to her paling skin. Her head lolled back, and he watched Arthur hoist her up to get a better grip. The man answered him before he could ask his question.

“Luca.”

Rage is a funny thing. The scariest moments of it aren’t the mindless ones–it’s the clear-headed ones, the ones you can’t excuse as uncontrollable. Controlled rage. And with one word, one _name_ , Alfie was filled with it. He was going to kill a man tonight, all that was left to decide was how.

Calm as he could, he spoke. “Do you know where he is?”

“Don’t fuck this up, Tommy’s got a plan.”

“ _Fuck_ Tommy’s plan!” he hardly recognized the bellow of his own voice, but maybe if he got loud enough, Tessa would open her eyes, _please open your eyes_. But then he went quiet, got close to Arthur til he could smell sour remnants of whiskey and tobacco smoke on his breath. “I swear to God, if that weren’t Tessa in your arms, I’d fucking choke the life right out of you. He shot my fucking _wife_ , Arthur.”

“And he killed my fucking brother.”

That gave him pause. Tessa was still alive, at least. The Shelbys had lost one of their legs in losing John. Fuckin hell, Changretta was leaving himself few friends in London. But the moment’s breath of reason reminded him to prioritize: first thing was taking care of Tessa. And while she was recovering, he could plan. “Right, then. Help me get her in the car?”

* * *

_Dear Luca,_

_I fear there’s been an awful misunderstanding. If you would allow me to clear things up, I invite you to join me for shabbat. Bring friends if you like, we’ll break bread together and clear the air._

* * *

He’d been causing a scene in the hospital, or so the nurses told him as they scolded him and tended to Tessa’s wound. So he tried waiting in the lobby. But he got kicked out of there, too, for calling one of the doctors a lazy cunt, which he _were_ , standing around like a fucking bum. He tried to go home for a bit, just to clear his head, but everything smelled like her, looked like her, made him sad and mad all at the same time. He spent all of three minutes pacing about before he headed back to the hospital, apologies in tow. Surely they were used to irate family members. Surely they could sympathize with the grief.

They watched him as if they were prison guards, but they let him in to see her. It was nearly one in the morning, and by then she’d been cleaned up and knocked out with a heavy dose of laudanum for the pain. She looked frail in that bed, not at all like his lively Tessa, and her color was all off. Made him feel sick, all the way up his throat. The nurse told him her leg had been fractured, and she’d lost quite a bit of blood, but she’d make a full recovery after some time spent in a cast to make sure the bone set properly. The worst of it now would be the pain and the scarring. He didn’t give a fuck about the scarring. He just cared that he couldn’t see the fire in her eyes. And it was his goddamn fault. The nurse patted him gently on the back as she left, and that fucked him up. Nobody ever felt pity for Alfie Solomons. All the same, once she was gone, he pulled a chair up to Tessa’s bedside and watched her for a moment, wondering if maybe she’d feel him there and wake up. She needed rest, he _wanted_ her to rest, but he wanted to see her, too.

He cleared his throat a few times before he actually spoke. Still, his voice came out a little cracked. “Dunno if you can hear me, yeah?” She didn’t stir. “Might be crazy, talking to you like this. Gonna do it anyway, ‘cause I don’t know what else to do. I’m sorry, Tess. I should’ve been more careful, kept you out of all this. But I was weak, weren’t I?” He ran the back of his hand against her pale cheek. “Weak in the face of how fucking lovely you are, yeah? And I wanted you next to me. I should’ve protected you from this.” _It was all the more reason to send her away_. “You really should go back to where you belong.” He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, _that wasn’t right, that didn’t sound right_. He scooted his chair closer, until he could brush the hair back from her forehead, and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Fuck that, Tessa, you belong with me. Can’t fucking bear to let you out of my sight after this. I’m gonna kill him, Tess. On my mother’s grave, I will kill that son of a bitch.”

The rage had quieted, burned down into an ember, but it wasn’t difficult to fan it to flames. Just thinking of retribution spiked his blood pressure. But that was for later. He closed his eyes for a moment to think about what he really wanted to say–all the way to depths of himself, underneath the pretense and the self-doubt and the fucking ego he’d built up to hide his damaged bits, it was really quite simple. He took her hand in his and leaned in. “I love you. I’ll love you for the rest of my life. And it may not be very long, yeah? But it’ll be fierce. It’ll be the one thing I get right.”

Like magic, her eyes fluttered open and she hummed something close to his name.

“Ah, there she is,” he whispered, squeezing her hand. Relief set in, seeing them eyes again.

“Is this still the hospital?”

“Mhm, they’ll let me take you home tomorrow, I think.”

She tried to sit up, and when she finally managed it, she held onto her head. Must’ve been fucking swimming in all them drugs they’d given her. “I’m sorry, Alfie, for all the trouble.”

“Now don’t you fucking start that, love, it’s not your doing. I’m the one to be sorry. Got you into all this, fucking hell, I was supposed to protect you.”

She squeezed his hand back and a quiet laugh blew through her nose. “Let’s agree the only person that’ll be sorry is that fucking Changretta.”

He’d decided that hours ago, but seeing the same fire in her was a surprise. A _joy_ , to be honest.

“I’m sure it’s the fucking _heroin_ they had me shoot back, but I’m ready to go balls crazy, Alfie. Nobody shoots Tessa Telfair, Tessa fucking _Solomons_ , without repercussions.”

_Tessa Solomons_ , God help him, it was the first time he’d heard that name like that, and it was coming from her, no less. He choked right up, his whole chest swelled with affection. “Fucking right you are,” he mumbled, kissing her forehead. With any luck, Luca would take the bait, and they’d put all this nonsense to rest.

* * *

He’d done something like this before, killing that goat named Tommy Shelby and busting Arthur up. But alliances—and circumstances—had changed a fair bit since then. So he styled this meeting differently. None of his normal theatrics, none of that intimidating low lighting. Nah, he wanted Luca as trusting as possible up to the last minute. He’d be suspicious, of course, he wasn’t a fool. But he was just cocky enough to maybe show up. That’s all Alfie needed.

And he did show. Brought four of his men with him, all carrying their pieces openly. He expected as much, expected they’d be on the defensive. So it’d just be a meal, then. The long table sat perpendicular to the big double doors, all of Alfie’s men seated with their backs to it–a show of transparency, letting the Italians see the door, see anyone who came in. The seats for Luca and his men sat opposite, five feet or so away from a wall. Seemingly a wall, anyway. ‘Course, Alfie’s men knew there was a door there, that led to a little pantry room where they usually stored the fine premium rum for personal use. This evening, it stored five more of Alfie’s men. But that was for later.

“Luca, mate, I respect your coming here,” Alfie began, once they were all seated. “Unfortunate circumstances, innit? But it gives us a chance to set things right.”

The Italian sat slowly, deliberately, and removed his hat with care. “I find it unlikely that you’d respond to an attack with diplomacy.”

He was perceptive, and absolutely right, but he didn’t need to know that yet. “Ah, fuck mate, you’ve got me all wrong. No no, I prefer diplomacy, really. In my old age, I find the violence less necessary. Two wrongs don’t make a right, yeah? Very different from your people’s way, I know, but I’ve enough blood on my hands.”

“You expect me to believe you won’t react violently to your wife being shot?”

Fuck, it was gonna take every ounce of control in him to keep from cracking. Couldn’t fucking tolerate even a reference to Tessa out of his slimy mouth. And he hated what he was about to say, too, had to really swallow down his anger for it. “She weren’t killed, yeah? Obviously you were sending a message, and it’s been heard loud and clear. But I do fear —and forgive the wordplay, mate—I fear you jumped the gun.”

Luca didn’t respond, just gestured his hand forward in a “ _continue_ ,” motion.

“The missus told me your man said all this happened on account of my conferring with Shelby. Now, I _did_ visit the pikeys that day, on a purely personal matter. Nothing related to business. They’ve got nothing worth offering me anyway.”

“And what reason do I have to believe that?”

“Mm, yeah, that one you’ll just have to take on my word. As far as you’re concerned, we were swapping nomadic tales, yeah? Point is, you’ve got nothing to be worried about. On that front, at least. But I am worried for you, mate. Killing John Shelby?” He tutted. “I expected smarter out of you.”

“A vendetta has nothing to do with cleverness or strategy. It’s retribution, understand?”

“Yeah, ‘course. I’m just saying…hell of a choice. Unless you’re planning on killing the rest.”

Luca turned his nose up and shook his head. “A life for a life. Now, we take everything from them, until they wish were dead.”

Alfie scrubbed at his beard and widened his eyes in mock admiration. “Mm, very poetic, very stylish. You lot do have that going for you. Plenty of style, what with the nice suits and the Tommy guns. I appreciate it, yeah? Don’t really _value_ it. Prefer a more rustic approach, myself.”

A knock at the door thudded through the room and Alfie stood, gesturing for  everyone else to join him.

“Right then, just about to start things. Dunno if any of you have experienced Shabbat, but the first thing we do, right, we sing a pair of hymns. Then the ritual wine, the hand-washing, the challah and salt. The hallmark of the Jews, wouldn’t you agree? All this tradition?” A couple of soft laughs spread through the crowd before he continued. “Bread and salt for guests, especially. A show of hospitality. No one can be harmed under the roof of a man who has offered you bread and salt.”

Another knock from the direction of the double doors, and the hidden pantry door across the room opened. Quick as lightning, the men hidden in the room slid up behind Luca’s men and slit their throats. Ollie himself pinned Luca’s arms behind him as his men fell curled around the chairs they’d just been sitting in.

“Bring him here, Ollie.” Alfie stood, calm as could be, right at the head of the table. He only turned to face Luca once Ollie had kicked his knees out and had him knelt on the ground. “Gonna be honest, mate, didn’t think you’d make it this easy for me.”

“Didn’t think you’d be so fucking stupid,” he countered, spitting on the ground at his feet. “There are people above me, Solomons. Won’t be a Jew left in Camden if you kill me.”

“Nah,” he dismissed, grabbing his cane from where it rested behind his chair. He walked up to Luca and frowned down at him from beneath his bushy beard. “Not gonna kill you. I _will_ beat your fucking face in though, mate. Now, you might find that brutal.” He tapped the head of his cane between the man’s eyes. “And I’ll grant you, I _am_ a savage cunt when pressed, yeah?” Then he knelt down to meet Luca eye-to-eye, even though it was murder on his knees. His adrenaline was too high to care. “But I’m not so savage as to shoot an innocent woman at her place of work, just to send a message, hm?”

He stood back up, removed his jacket carefully, rolled his sleeves to his elbows, and began his work.

“I’m gonna be vulnerable with you, during this.”

_Whack_.

“My wife, brought to me, bleeding–”

_Whack_.

“Fucking terrifying, that is.”

_Whack_.

“Like having your heart ripped out of you, still beating.”

_Whack_.

“Felt powerless for the first time in years.”

He took a moment to shake out his hand which was starting to feel the shock of so many hard hits.

“Don’t like feeling powerless.”

_Whack_.

Ollie had been holding him up since the third hit, but now he slumped to the side. “Pick him back up, I’ve not finished my story.”

He did as he was told and held Luca in place once more.

“So now, she’s in the fucking hospital.”

_Whack_.

“You put her in that fucking hospital, mate.”

_Whack_.

Alfie squatted down, right where Luca’s blood had started to pool, and peered at the mess he’d made of his face.

“She’s laid up in one of them beds, all the fire stamped out of her. ‘Cause of _you_. Not very nice. But she’ll be alright, yeah? You? Well, you’ll never know the love of a woman like her, will you? Your life ends here.”

Luca swayed in place, one eye swollen shut entirely, his whole face bruised beneath the blood and torn skin, nose surely broken, eyebrow busted, likely missing teeth. But he still managed to look up at Alfie. “Thought…you weren’t gonna kill me.”

He was a tough bastard, Alfie would grant him that. With his left hand, he grabbed him by the hair to keep his head upright. Then he yelled out toward the double doors.

“You gonna have your turn, then?”

As planned, Tommy and Arthur Shelby strode into the room, ready to finish the job. It took some arguing, but in the end, Alfie agreed it was the Shelbys’ right to land the final blow.

Tommy, always the calmer of the two, approached first, and stared at Alfie and Luca in mild amusement. “Have your fun, Alfie?”

He was never opposed to a quick bit of banter with Thomas, but as he stared at Luca’s pulp of a face, he had trouble letting go of the rage. “ _A carne di lupo, zanne di cane_ , eh?” The Italian blinked at that, but said nothing.

Finally, Alfie loosened his grip on the dark hair and returned to his feet, wiping his bloodied hand on his apron.

“You lot clean up after,” he directed to those of his men who had stayed through the beating. “I’ve earned a bit of time with my wife.”


	16. Chapter 16 (NSFW)

Tessa woke to the sound of the front door opening. Alfie had brought her home earlier in the day, under strict orders of bedrest. He’d called his personal doctor over–the same one that saw to her on her first night in 1925–and he prescribed her gentler medicines. She was hesitant to keep on the painkillers, but whoever had shot her had exquisite aim and knew just how to make her hurt.

She must’ve slept most of the day, but she was well-rested now, so she was alright with it. She knew where Alfie was, what he was doing. It hardly fazed her, in all honesty, but _that_ frightened her. In her world, killing people wasn’t a solution. Well, perhaps it was for some folks, just not for her. But here, now, among the Alfie Solomons of the world, it seemed perfectly reasonable to take a life for a life and leave the law out of it. Still, she worried about him. Worried about the toll it took on him to carry out his brand of justice. He would insist that he was perfectly fine, very well-suited for it. And maybe he was. But it didn’t stop her fretting about how his day had gone.

Greta came by midday on Alfie’s orders to make sure Tessa was alright and to keep a fire lit, but she didn’t even remember the visit. She woke immediately to Alfie’s presence though, aware of him in ways she might never understand. Through sleepy eyes, she watched him hang up his coat and hat, little more than a silhouette in orange and red as the fire flickered nearby.

“Alfie?”

He turned his head to her with a fond smile as he rolled up his sleeves. “What are you doing awake? You feeling alright?”

“I’m fine. Been sleeping all day.” As he approached, she looked him over for new bumps or bruises. When he was close enough, she reached a hand out for his and ran her fingers along his knuckles, sure that she’d find them split or bloodied. But he seemed unmarred. So she lifted his hand to her lips and breathed easy to see him alright.

He sounded tired, but soft, when he spoke. “It’s over, love.”

She raised questioning eyes to him and pulled her lips away. “You killed him, then?”

Before he answered, he pulled his armchair across the room, right up next to the couch, and sunk all of his weight into it so he could relax without worrying he’d hurt her cast-covered leg. “No. Let the fucking Shelbys do that, they’re the one with the dead brother. But he suffered by my hand first, I owed you that much.”

She took his hand again and held it safely between her own. “You don’t owe me anything. This wasn’t your fault.”

His thumb rasped across her palm and he shook his head. “It was. I’m not gonna argue it, but it was. Least partly. That’s not what I mean, though,” he said, leaning forward, towards her. “I owed you ‘cause I love you, pet. And ‘cause you’re brave enough to love me back. Fuck, I owe you everything for that, yeah?”

He pulled his hand from hers and cupped her cheek–part of its color returned. Then he brought his face so close to hers, she thought he meant to kiss her. Nose-to-nose, eyes close enough to make out separate lashes. “I’d burn the world for you.” She could feel the words roll off his lips and onto her own, dangerous and sweet and deadly serious. That was his “I love you,” his gift of all himself, above his own needs and ambitions.

She turned her face into his palm, both to kiss it and to hide her tearing eyes. “Alfie, don’t ever ask me to go back again.”

“Fuck that, you stay with me.” It was a rushed whisper, the plea of a man half out of his mind with desperation, sealed with the most ferocious kiss she’d ever known. Teeth and pulling and a taste of blood, and she cursed her injured leg, keeping her tied in place when she wanted to crawl, climb, all-but-smother him with this ever-growing love that swelled inside her. She made do, locking her arms tight around his neck, halfway wishing that he’d say fuck it and sprawl himself on top of her, leg be damned. He didn’t, he wouldn’t dare risk hurting her, but when he tucked an arm beneath and around her and pulled her towards his chest, she almost wept with relief and clutched him tighter, dug her fingertips into his back.

“I’m not goin anywhere,” he whispered between kisses. But that wasn’t her fear, it wasn’t fear at all, at least not yet. He was here and he wanted her to stay and there was nothing to fear, only life to celebrate.

“I know,” she answered, breathless, hungry. “It’s this godforsaken leg, I can’t–”

He pulled away quickly at that, mouth red, eyes hazy. “Fuck, did I–?”

“No, it’s fine, it’s…all of this, all of you,” she said, gesturing wildly at the frame of him in the dark. “I wanna rip your damn shirt off and fuck you silly.”

“Lie back.”

“What?”

“Lie back. Unbutton your shirt.”

She’d been wearing one of his, a comfort through recovery, but followed his order with a thrill. He pulled his own shirt over his head without preamble and dropped back down to kissing her. He was a force. Even without all of his weight atop her, Alfie was all-consuming, hard and heavy with love. With one hand dug into the arm of the couch above her head, the other skated across whatever skin of hers it could find. Light, calloused fingers everywhere, across a nipple, down her waist, all the more maddening because she knew they could be firm and rough and grasp at her desperately. In return, she drank from him like it was the last chance she’d ever get. Sucked his mouth into hers, lapped at his tongue with her own, hummed and moaned and nearly wept at each of his grunts because _he loved her back_ , he was just as overwhelmed. Later in life, she would wonder how many people in the world got to know the joy of love and love in return. How many people had run out of words and had their lover nod because the words weren’t necessary anymore when you had the sounds before words, the hums and whines and half-laughs. And the touch and the kiss and the braided breaths.

“Please, Alfie.”

“I’ve got you,” he whispered into her mouth. And he did. All she’d done was beg, vaguely, and he knew what to do, knew which parts of her were aching and needed him. He rubbed lightly at her clit until she nodded, then pushed two thick fingers into her wet heat and tucked his mouth next to her ear. “That’s it, innit?”

“ _Yes_.”

Their faces mirrored one another, brows arched and pulled up together, lips parted, but while her eyes squeezed shut, his opened wide, watching her squirm against him. He slipped his free hand behind her neck where he could cradle her head as he stroked his fingers in and out of her. Like playing an instrument, pulling out sighs and whimpers, and she gave herself over to his mercy.

“I’ve heard a lot of pretty things in my day,” he spoke against her neck, mouth hot and open. “Nothing like you, Tess.”

She finally opened her eyes and nearly came at the sight. His arm, corded with muscle, tensed between her legs, his eyes fiery and smiling at her, and his lips folded over one another amid that wild beard, a warm, orange haze around all of it.

She lost herself to the fantasy that it could always be like this. That he would come home every evening and love her, in one way or another. That even when the day wore at them, they could come find themselves in each other once again, with muscle memory fingertips and lips, “oh yes, it’s you, and it’s me, I remember.” She was her before this, but now she was so much more of her. And she didn’t know for sure, but she thought that maybe he was him again, too. That they had both done what they’d done in life so that they could find each other on this sofa, in this embrace, with his fingers inside of her and her arms holding him safe, “I know, love, I know this is love.” She came apart beneath him, smothered by affection and the fine sweat-slicked hairs of his chest and his rumbling hum of satisfaction. Then he scooped her into his arms and carried her to bed, a belated threshold crossing after a wedding that never happened. But she raised her hand to his damp hairline, and smiled all the same at the sight of gold band he’d given her, threading through his hair. Everything out of order, and real, and lovely enough that it could stop her breathing.

* * *

Life proceeded fast and slow, all at once, passing week after week in relative peace. After much convincing, Alfie agreed to a vacation–a honeymoon of sorts, in Italy, where they were supposed to have met. It was believable, the idea of falling in love with him there, in the hazy evening sun that brought the Dolomites to life. She bought a camera one rainy day in Verona, mesmerized by the complexity of it in comparison to what she’d always known. Years later, when she had the film developed, she remembered the old photo marked “A. Solomons” that she’d found in 2019. The photo she had taken in 1925. She had always thought something fated was happening when Alfie looked in her eyes–maybe everyone in love thought that. But that photo felt like proof–proof that she had always been there, out of time, like a changeover spot on an old film reel, that wasn’t part of the movie but belonged there anyway.

In time, the Shelbys all but ruled London, having ousted Changretta on behalf of big players stateside. Alfie supported their ventures, as long as they didn’t interfere with his. And that summer, whispers of a manifesto that sounded familiar to Tessa’s ears started filtering through the whole of Europe. Murmurings of fresh conflict rose, though they were hardly more than ideas. But she and Alfie agreed–even ideas were dangerous. It wouldn’t do to wait until the last minute. Still, it was hard to make sense of where they could help most. In the end, they decided to use the bakery. It would be years before the plan could take effect, but with the right channels and contacts in place, the bakery could be a good cover for smuggling people out of danger and into relative safety. And down the line, if Tommy’s political career took off, they figured they could use his perks, too. Of course Alfie had grand plans of physically beating the anti-Semitism out of Europe. And Tessa would have watched him gleefully.

But as the months passed, his energy waned. It was imperceptible, day-to-day, but by the start of winter, he was returning home earlier than was his habit. And he was napping more than usual, too. His bones seemed to ache more often, and the dry patches on his face required more tending to. But still, he was Alfie. Snarky and clever, unpredictable and affectionate, despite the looming reality that his clock was ticking.

Temperatures dropped and Tessa kept fires going and tea steeping and they spent evenings cuddled on the couch, telling stories and reading to one another until fatigue set in. And every night, he’d say some version of his piece in a low and lazy voice.

“M’gonna let Tommy do it, I swear. Shoot me right between the eyes.”

“I’m sure nothing would please him more.”

“You think I’m joking?”

She turned in his arms a bit to look him in the eye. “I think you’re deadly serious.”

“Hm. Well, we’ll give it another day. For your sake. Still, you ought to go back after I’m gone. You belong in the sunshine, love.”

“I belong right here, you big oaf. Head pressed right here, next to your soft heart.”

He went quiet, and she thought he’d finally dozed off. But then he wrapped a heavy arm around her and mumbled. “I haven’t got a soft heart.”

“We can argue about it tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. And every night, he’d hum his agreement, and it would vibrate against her back, and he’d press a kiss to her hair, like tasting sunlight.


	17. Epilogue

## June, 1938

It was strangely blustery for the start of summer. The newspapers called it “unprecedented violence,” as if even the weather felt the tension building all over the world.

The wind whipped through the rooms and corridors of the bakery, trying to peel the papers off of Tessa’s desk. She’d been at it for hours, signing—forging, quite honestly—application after application for immigration. It wasn’t difficult work, but it was hard to take a break. Over and over again: one more form, one more life, one more form, one more life. The more she had ready for Ollie to pick up, the better. He’d take them to Tommy who would make sure they went to the right place. It was a far cry from running an illegal distillery, but they kept it all quiet anyway.

As if he’d read her thoughts, Ollie showed up not a moment later with a grimace on his face.

“Don’t tell me you’re still afraid of Tommy Shelby after all these years.”

“‘Course not.”

“Then why the scowl?”

He jerked his thumb out toward the hallway and averted his eyes.

When it was clear that he wouldn’t come out with it, she sat a paperweight atop the finished stack of forms and went to investigate the matter. She should have guessed…

“Alfred Solomons, what on God’s green earth did you do?”

He sported a cut across his eyebrow, and what would no doubt become a black eye in a matter of hours. The seam of his jacket sleeve was torn an inch or two, and he could hardly make eye contact. Her first inclination was anger, but that swiftly turned to worry as she marched toward him.

“I’m not sorry about it, he was being a bully.”

“Who?”

“Edmund. He kept trying to lift Ruby’s skirt when the teacher weren’t looking.”

“And?”

“And I told him he’d better not, because I was Ruby’s friend, and I wouldn’t let him get away with it.”

“What’s our official stance, Alfie?”

He rolled his eyes. “ _Violence is not the solution_. But mum, he was—“

She interrupted him, despite his fervor. “I know. He was wrong. And it was good of you to stand up for your friend.”

“You’re not cross with me, then?”

“Well I’m not _happy_. I’d hate to see you in trouble for trying to do the right thing, and school is not a place for fighting.” His head hung dejectedly, but she could practically see the steam pouring out of his ears at the injustice. “I can tell you’re still riled, so wash up right quick and go with Ollie.”

“Where to?”

“He’s got a delivery to make to the Shelbys.”

That would cheer him up. He started toward the kitchen, but paused and went back to Tessa. Only twelve, and already, he came up to her chin when he hugged her. “Sorry I worried you.”

She ruffled his dark hair and patted his back. “I know. But you have to mend the sleeve yourself.”

* * *

_He’s just like you. I try not to push that on him. He’s his own person, and I don’t want him thinking he has to take your place. But I see more of you in him each day. Doesn’t follow a rule he thinks is wrong, even when it gets him in trouble. Already bakes better bread than me. And he’s got your sad eyes, god love him._

_I worry he’s got a crush on that Ruby Shelby. She’s a sweetheart, but they’re too young. Or maybe I’m just afraid of time passing. Afraid I’ll forget some piece of you, even though I remember everything about you, as if it were yesterday._

_I miss you. Here in these letters is the only place I feel like I can say that without sad faces surrounding me. And it_ is _sad, missing you. But it’s happy, too. I’m always happy, thinking of you. I just wish that he’d had the chance to know you. But I tell him stories all the time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all she wrote! Thank you, all of you, for following along and reading and offering fantastic encouragement. This isn't the last Alfie piece I'll write, and if you follow me on Tumblr, you'll see plenty of more tidbits between Alfie and his Tessa.


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